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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 17th Of November 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 17th Of November 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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Here is Sunday’s early evening music & poetry programme ‘West Wind Blows’ with Kathleen Faherty. Broadcast Sunday the 17th Of November 2024 https://www.connemarafm.com/audio-page/
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This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. It features poetry, songs, and stories. The program starts with a poem by W.B. Yeats about unrequited love. The poem is recited by Lucy Monaghan, who has a personal connection to it. The program also encourages listeners to share stories of kindness and positivity. They can submit their stories to be read on the show. The program ends with a story called "Shiny Things" and a song called "Mysterious People." This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and matches in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blues, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Casham is producer and technician for the program. We'll begin the program with a poem by W.B. Yeats, When You Are Old. This is a poem of unrequited love. It was written for Maude Gonne, the love of Yeats's life. However, it is a poem of love. This is a poem of unrequited love. It was written for Maude Gonne, the love of Yeats's life. However, the love expressed in this poem is a kind of spiritual love. How many loved your moments of glad grace and loved your beauty with love false or true. And of course, Maude Gonne was very beautiful. The poem goes on, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you and loved the sorrows of your changing face. And of course, that one man was W.B. Yeats, who loved her all during her pilgrimage through life and in all her moods and struggles. And as she grew into old age, he loved the sorrows of her changing face. And this poem is recited by Lucy Monaghan. And earlier, Lucy told me why this poem means so much to her. One of the first times I went out with Ken Monaghan, whom I eventually married, he recited this poem to me. And I joined in after the first or second line, I joined in and we finished the poem together. And when we were finished, he looked at me and he said, I recited that to a girl once and she laughed at me. And he said, I never took her out again because she had no soul. Ken was a native of Uchtdorf. He happened to be a nephew, as he always said, an accident at birth. He was a nephew of James Joyce. His mother was May Joyce's sister and he was always very proud of the fact. And his mother always warned him, you know, never to broadcast the fact, but never to deny him either. When you were old by William Butler Yeats When you were old and grey and full of sleep and nodding by the fire, Take down this book and slowly read And dream of the soft look your eyes had once And of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace And loved your beauty with a love false or true But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars Murmur a little sadly how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. When I grow too old to dream I'll have you to remember And when I grow too old to dream Your love will live in my heart So give me my dream And don't let us part And when I grow too old to dream Your love will live in my heart So give me my dream And don't let us part And when I grow too old to dream Your love will live in my heart And that was Slim Whitman with When I Grow Too Old to Dream. During the coming weeks we're hoping to include in this programme letters from listeners. We'll welcome stories and accounts of special acts of kindness that you may have experienced which have influenced you in a positive way. Put simply, we'd like you to write about positive events you have experienced which have inspired you. We'd hope that these stories would counteract all the negativity that surrounds us. And as the great English nature poet William Morrie's verse describes what makes life livable and worthwhile as the little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love. So, with your permission, your letter will be read out on the Sunday evening West Wind Blows programme. You may wish to read the letter yourself, otherwise one of our regular readers will oblige. The letter can include your name or be anonymous. It's up to you. You can hand in your letter at the radio station here in Letterfrack or post it to the West Wind Blows Cunnamara Community Radio, Letterfrack, County Galway or email it to info at cunnamarafm.com. Attention, West Wind Blows. And this story comes from Veronica, a past pupil of Briar Hill National School in Galway City. And the story is read by Mary Faherty. Dear Mrs Brogan, A very belated thank you for your kindness. You taught me in junior and senior infant class. As a child I was extremely introverted and found attention of any sort stressful. You were the first adult outside of my family that I had dealings with. Luckily for me, you were a gentle, compassionate person. You were a wonderful teacher and an even better human being. You understood my shyness, you quietly praised and encouraged me and never pushed me into speaking in front of the class. Decades later, there is one particular example of your kindness still etched in my memory. I was four years old and it was my first week in school. I was too shy to raise my hand and ask to go to the bathroom and had an accident. You noticed and before I had time to get embarrassed or any of the other children realised what happened, you quickly grabbed a newspaper and dropped it on the pool under my chair. You said, Oh dear, Veronica, your flask is after breaking. You cleaned the floor without a fuss. For years, I was convinced that you genuinely thought that my flask had broken. Wishing you the blessings you deserve. From Veronica, a former Briarhill National School pupil. Children are people who live in a land made of raindrops and puddles and pebbles and streams, solemnly watching it twig as it sails on a clear crystal pool to an island of dreams. There go a pair who have just built a city of mud and it's real. They know that mud doesn't look very pretty, but ooh, how it feels. This little boy greets the snow with a smile. That little girl has discovered an isle made up of pillows. One little fellow is friends with the wind in the willows. All of them children and all are mysterious people. I can remember when I was a boy that my bed was a ship that I sailed through the night. And I remember the world as a place that was eager and loving and shiny and bright. Where is the boy who was friends with the rainbow and once rode upon? Where is that shy and mysterious person? Oh, where have I gone? I can remember I once said my prayers. But now I stand by while my children say theirs, watching them kneeling. And I could cry that one day they'll forget all that they're feeling. Oh, what a shame that our children should grow into people. And that was Val Doonican with Mysterious People. Now we have a story. It's called Shiny Things. Written by Eilish Connolly. And the story is read by Clodagh O'Donoghue. And it's taken from the CD A Page in the Life. Shiny Things by Eilish Connolly I like the spire. Maybe I even love the spire. Because several good things happened the day the spire got his hat on, got its final piece into place and finally glittered down on Dublin. And all the thousands who turned out to cheer and scorn, to howl in derision, or simply to be there. Something to tell the grandkids. A small gem to remember for yourself of a wet Wednesday. Me, I had a scan appointment to get to. My youngest child was in utero, a full twenty weeks old, and the rotunda beckoned. So in we went, myself and himself, him gleeful and giddy, delighted, being the big daddy and all. Me quietly praying everything was well, bladder bursting. They can't do the scan unless one's bladder is bursting. Hop up, says the nurse, and I do. She smears on the cold gel and the monitor sparks to life. There's the heart, she points, and the head, the spine and the legs. Is everything all right? says I. Is it a boy? says he. The nurse ignores him. Everything is just fine. But is it a boy? he demands. Are there any dangly bits? I can't see, she smiles patiently. She gets these nutters in daily, her eyes explain. Well, can't you turn it round so? says himself, matter-of-factly, so that you can get a good look. We both ignore him. Lew? I ask desperately. I'll show you, she nods. You can search the screen for dangly bits while we're gone, she offers. He is now practically on top of the monitor, such is his eagerness. One princess is enough, he is declared. He is serious. As we leave the hospital, I remind him of something we talked about several times before. The ring. You promised, says I. I did, he agrees. Ten years, purred baby on the way, it's not too much to ask. I feel lucky today. We round the top of O'Connell Street. It's quiet, no traffic. A crowd has gathered expectation in the air. Let's go and choose the ring and be back in time for the top going on, says he. We choose it, simple platinum solitaire. Not so big it will blind you, not so small you'd have to squint. Now I'm here again, in the new plaza, in O'Connell Street, pushing the boogie. We turn into the warm September sun, stretch out our arms and feel the diamond glint of the spire on our skin. My sixteen-month-old toddler and I. And he laughs and squeals. We hold hands, his soft, sticky one folded into mine, and I close my eyes, silently fingering the platinum band and the smooth surface of the stone, feeling the heat of the day on my upturned face, remembering another day. The old plaza ring, she was once the grandmother. She wore it the lifetime, gave it to me. Now through the long years, she wore it so proudly. It was made where the plaza's old dam used to be. What tale is there to tell? A triumph and a friendship and grand happy days. When the whole world sings, oh, wave it to us all. It will bring us to tomorrow, should everyone love it. The old plaza ring. With the crown of strength, puny mind of honor, and slapping heart, God's blessing was written in a circle of gold. Cast off and ended with true love entwined in the old plaza ring. Fashionable as a dress, and fun to the dear one, her soft, gentle smile is what charmed me. The king on her royal dress, she saw me when she saw me, she could see the license of the old plaza ring. It was her gift to me, and it made me so happy. With this on my finger, my heart beat to a swing. Oh, king on this world, could be half so happy as I am when wearing the old plaza ring. Oh, when the angels above call me up to heaven, in the heart of the plaza, their voices will sing. Sing with me to tomorrow. You'll be with us tomorrow. Be sure and bring with you your old plaza ring. Be sure and bring with you your old plaza ring. And that was Jermot O'Brien with The Old Plaza Ring. We'll continue with a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, born in Portland, Maine, in 1807. His father was a lawyer, and his mother, who had been to school more than most girls at that time, was fond of music and poetry. His father really wanted him to study law, but Henry followed his own star and became a teacher and a poet. In 1835, his first wife, Mary Storer, died, and eight years later, he married Frances Appleton, and they had six children. In 1861, tragedy struck again when his second wife died when her dress caught fire from sealing wax she was using. Longfellow himself was badly burned trying to save her. Again, he turned to work for comfort. When Longfellow died in 1882, he was America's foremost poet. A monument to him stands in the Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey. This poem you are about to hear, The Song of Hiawatha, is about Indians, like those he had seen during his own boyhood in Portland, when Indians used to come to trade their furs. The poem is from the CD Classic American Poetry, and the poem is read by William Hootkins. The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow At the doorway of his wigwam sat the ancient arrow-maker In the land of the Dakotas, making arrowheads of jasper, Arrowheads of chalcedony. At his side, in all her beauty, sat the lovely Minnehaha, Sat his daughter, laughing water, Platting mats of flags and rushes. Of the past the old man's thoughts were, And the maidens of the future. He was thinking, as he sat there, Of the days when, with such arrows, He had struck the deer and bison On the muscadet, the meadow, Shot the wild goose, flying southward, On the wing, the clamorous wah-wah. Thinking of the great war-parties, How they came to buy his arrows, Could not fight without his arrows. Ah, no more such noble warriors Could be found on earth as they were. Now the men were all like women, Only used their tongues for weapons. She was thinking of a hunter From another tribe and country, Young and tall and very handsome, Who one morning, in the springtime, Came to buy her father's arrows, Sat and rested in the wigwam, Lingered long about the doorway, Looking back as he departed. She had heard her father praise him, Praise his courage and his wisdom. Would he come again for arrows To the falls of Minnehaha? On the mat her hands lay idle, And her eyes were very dreamy. Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, Heard a rustling in the branches. And with glowing cheek and forehead, With the deer upon his shoulders, Suddenly from out the woodlands, Hiawatha stood before them. Straight the ancient arrow-maker, Looked up gravely from his labor, Laid aside the unfinished arrow, Bade him enter at the doorway, Saying, as he rose to meet him, Hiawatha, you are welcome. At the feet of laughing water, Hiawatha laid his burden, Threw the red deer from his shoulders, And the maiden looked up at him, Looked up from her mat of rushes, Said with gentle look and accent, You are welcome, Hiawatha. Very spacious was the wigwam, Made of deerskin, dressed and whitened, With the gods of the Dakotas Drawn and painted on its curtains. And so tall the doorway, Hardly Hiawatha stooped to enter, Hardly touched his eagle feathers, As he entered at the doorway. Then up rose the laughing water, From the ground fair Minnehaha, Lay aside her mat unfinished, Brought forth food and set before them, Water brought them from the brooklet, Gave them food in earthen vessels, Gave them drink in bowls of basswood, Listened while the guest was speaking, Listened while her father answered, But not once her lips she opened, Not a single word she uttered. Yes, as in a dream she listened To the words of Hiawatha, As he talked of old Nokomis, Who had nursed him in his childhood, As he told of his companions, Shibiabos the musician, And a very strong man, Kwasind, And of happiness and plenty In the land of the Ojibwes, In the pleasant land and peaceful. After many years of warfare, Many years of strife and bloodshed, There is peace between the Ojibwes And the tribe of the Dakotas. Thus continued Hiawatha, And then added, speaking slowly, That this peace may last forever, And our hands be clasped more closely, And our hearts be more united, Give me as my wife this maiden, Minnehaha, laughing water, Loveliest of Dakota women. And the ancient arrow-maker Paused a moment ere he answered, Smoked a little while in silence, Looked at Hiawatha proudly, Fondly looked at laughing water, And made answer very gravely, Yes, if Minnehaha wishes, Let your heart speak, Minnehaha. And the lovely laughing water Seemed more lovely as she stood there, Neither willing nor reluctant As she went to Hiawatha, Softly took the seat beside him While she said, and blushed to say it, I will follow you, my husband. This was Hiawatha's wooing. Thus it was he won the daughter Of the ancient arrow-maker In the land of the Dakotas. From the wigwam he departed, Leading with him laughing water. Hand in hand they went together Through the woodland and the meadow, Left the old man standing lonely At the doorway of his wigwam. Heard the falls of Minnehaha Calling to them from the distance, Crying to them from afar off, Fare thee well, O Minnehaha. And the ancient arrow-maker Turned again unto his labor, Sat down by his sunny doorway, Murmuring to himself, and saying, Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love and those who love us. Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger, Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, As she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger. Pleasant was the journey homeward, Through interminable forests, Over meadow, over mountain, Over river, hill, and hollow, Short it seemed to Hiawatha, Though they journeyed very slowly, Though his pace he checked and slackened To the steps of laughing water. Over wide and rushing rivers In his arms he bore the maiden, Light he thought her as a feather, As the plume upon his headgear, Cleared the tangled pathway for her, Bent aside the swaying branches, Made at night a lodge of branches, And a bed with boughs of hemlock, And a fire before the doorway With the dry cones of the pine tree. All the traveling winds went with them, O'er the meadow, through the forest, All the stars of night looked at them, Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber. From his ambush in the oak tree, Peeped the squirrel, Ajidaumo, Watched with eager eyes the lovers, And the rabbit, the wabaso, Scampered from the path before them, Peering, peeping from his burrow, Sat erect upon his haunches, Watched with curious eyes the lovers. Pleasant was the journey homeward. All the birds sang loud and sweetly, Songs of happiness and heart's ease, Sang the bluebird, the owaisa, Happy are you, Hiawatha, Having such a wife to love you. Sang the opechi, the robin, Happy are you, laughing water, Having such a noble husband. From the sky the sun benignant Looked upon them through the branches, Saying to them, O' my children, Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, Life is checkered shade and sunshine, Rule by love, O' Hiawatha. From the sky the moon looked at them, Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, Whispered to them, O' my children, Day is restless, night is quiet, Man imperious, woman feeble, Half is mine, although I follow, Rule by patience, laughing water. Thus it was they journeyed homeward. Thus it was that Hiawatha, To the lodge of old Nakomis, Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, Brought the sunshine of his people. Minnehaha, laughing water, Handsomest of all the women In the land of the Dakotas, In the land of handsome women. There once was an Indian An Indian maid, A shy little prairie maid, Who sang a lay a love song, Gay as on the plain, She'd while away the day, She loved a warrior bold, This shy little maid of old. But brave and gay, He rode one day to a battle far away. Now the moon shines tonight On pretty red wings, The breeze is sighing, The night bird's crying, For a far-neath his star Her brave is sleeping, While red wings weeping Her heart away. Now the moon shines tonight On pretty red wings, The breeze is sighing, The night bird's crying, For a far-neath his star Her brave is sleeping, While red wings weeping Her heart away. Now the moon shines tonight On pretty red wings, The breeze is sighing, The night bird's crying, For a far-neath his star Her brave is sleeping, While red wings weeping Her heart away. She watched for him day and night, And kept all the campfires bright, And under the sky each night She would lie and dream about His coming by and by. But when all the braves returned, The heart of red wing yearned, For far, far away, Her warrior gay fell bravely in the fray. Now the moon shines tonight On pretty red wings, The breeze is sighing, The night bird's crying, For a far-neath his star Her brave is sleeping, While red wings weeping Her heart away. And that was Red Wing by Jack Marty. Eamon McNally is a member of Lough Rey's writer's group, and this story written by Eamon is called Sunny, and the story is read by Mary Soherty. Sunny by Eamon McNally Back in the days when the cattle fairs were held on the streets of Lough Rey, the 11th of February was the biggest cattle fair of the year. From early morning the town was alive with the sounds of roaring cattle. Every house, pub and shop that lined the busy streets had barricades up to prevent the cattle from breaking down windows or running into houses. It was all treated as normal. The town needed the money. The farmers, who had been running up bills for months, were about to experience the first payday in months. It was raining like hell all that morning in February 1955. Farmers waited, standing for hours, leaning on their black-thorn sticks beside their bullocks. Their long raincoats were saturated with heavy rain. Some men had their peaked caps turned backwards to prevent the raindrops running down their necks. Even the cattle looked miserable, looing out loud. They were hungry. They hadn't eaten grass since the day before. Cattle buyers moved like vultures through the crowd, seeking out vulnerable prey. It was easy pickings. The suitably heavy beasts for export were already in carriages at the railway station. The buyers dressed in distinctive brown shop coats over red leather boots. They continued their rounds, pressing their sticks against the passive beasts. How much? the buyer asked. Twenty-five, replied the farmer. The buyer walked away without a word. Well, what would you go? came another voice. Sixty for that three. They still need a lot of weight, said the buyer. Say seventeen, we have a deal. No, sixty is my best. Show us your hand. The buyer counted out the money into the farmer's hand, five tenners and two fivers. Sure I knew your father well. He was a decent man. Many the deal we had in the old days, said the buyer. The feel of the money on a hungry, wet hand had a psychological effect. Done. Now what about the others? asked the farmer. Come on, a minute ago you had cattle and no money. Now you have money and cattle. You're not doing so bad, said the buyer. Well, I suppose you're right, the farmer said. The bar in the railway hotel was already full. It was still morning. Tills rang out against the sounds of the loud voices. The farmers were happy now, laying into plates of fried pudding and mashed potatoes, all to be washed down amongst the tea. Annual accounts in the hardware and feed stores were settled for another year. Big farmers always kept together. They were now the new gentry. Sonny Devine and his wife Josie were busy in the kitchen of their house-cum-tearooms on Barrick Street. The top of the Stanley range in the kitchen was red. It had been going all night. The big pot of homemade soup was already simmering at the back of the range. Sonny made great mutton soup. Lentils and pearl barley mixed with bones and chunks of mutton were the main ingredients. All the mugs and soup bowls were washed and dried and left gleaming on the dresser. The big willow-patterned plates were stacked high with bacon and cheese sandwiches. The big kettle boiled over every minute. The sign outside the door saying Devine's Soup and Teas meant exactly what it said. Any farmer needing early breakfast after a quick sale wouldn't leave the table hungry. An extra slice or two of bread, if they liked to, was never added to the bill. Josie, Sonny's wife, seldom went into the parlour on fair days. She preferred to stick it out in the kitchen. She hated the way some farmers behaved at the table. They seldom removed their hats, which was something she disliked. She hated when they felt their way through the sandwiches with their awkward hands. It reminded her of the way she watched them feel young pigs at the market. If they weren't filling the soup bowls up with bread, they were taking the bowl up to their mouths and making disturbing sipping noises. No one in polite society ever behaved that way, she thought. Sonny, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. He was as rough as a bear's arse. Sometimes he didn't shave for days and his tongue needed regular washing. People often wondered what Josie saw in him. They didn't have any children, so it wasn't as if it was a gunshot wedding. Josie loved Sonny as much as she did the first time they met. Sonny, in her eyes, could never be uncouth. If he could attend to the rough farmers on fair days and let Josie attend to the more cultured people like travelling salesmen, that was all she asked. The house on Barrick Street was all Sonny and Josie needed to make the ends meet. One side of the house was let out as a hairdressing salon. The other side was divided into two rooms, a parlour and a kitchen. There was no bathroom, only an outside toilet and a basin and ewer on a washstand in the bedrooms. The upstairs bedrooms were regularly let out to lodgers. Josie was an astute little woman. She looked after the money. She didn't say much, and if she did, she usually agreed with you. If you said it was cold, she agreed, as she did if you said it was warm. Most of the time she said nothing, humming nonchalantly to herself. Sonny was my mother's oldest brother. He had a good sense of humour and an easygoing nature. He walked with a limp, sometimes using a stick for support. He smoked 100 fags a day, a habit that often left him out of breath. In the evening, he and Josie would sit one each side of the range, listening to the radio. Sonny often played the mouth organ and Josie loved to hear him play. He played by ear. He could play any tune after hearing it only once on the radio. On that fair day in 1955, Sonny appeared, as Josie wanted him to, clean-shaven and wearing a white apron. As the morning ran on and the rain continued, he was tired, lifting away and putting back the makeshift gate outside his door. It was a job he knew he had to do to let the farmers in for breakfast. The farmers all complained, one after the other, never about the breakfast, always about the weather. Sonny couldn't see the point. It was always raining. So what, he muttered to himself. If you don't like the rain, why don't you try farming in Africa? You never hear them complain about the rain. Sonny never said it out loud. He always kept his thoughts to himself. But that day in February 1955, he did have an explosion. That was the day the bullock came through the front door and got caught halfway up the stairs on the landing. That was the final straw that blew Sonny's fuse. All he could see was the bullock's posterior jammed tight against the newel post on the landing. Sonny's rage became so intense that he thought his head would burst. He limped out of the house onto the street. There, in the middle of the crowd, he delivered a fuming speech, the greatest litany of curses ever heard on Bag Street. Unfortunately, it was all lost on the deaf ears of his drenched listeners. Sonny didn't realise at the time that two of the farmers had already dragged the bullock by the tail down the stairs and out the door, not out of a sense of duty, but because there was a buyer in the area. No one knew what Sonny was on about, and nobody cared. Besides, it's what bullocks do. But one person did care, and she was sitting back in the kitchen waiting for a good explanation. Josie was furious. She didn't speak, and she didn't have to. Sonny knew by the way the cutlery was dumped into the sink he was in trouble. "'What's up with you, love?' Sonny asked. "'Up with me!' yelled Josie. "'Are you deaf? "'Could you not hear yourself out on the public street "'shouting like a madman? "'Did you think about the neighbours? "'What got into you at all? "'Don't you know that those poor farmers are our bread and butter?' "'But then, what would you know?' she sneered. Sonny knew he was in for another history lesson. "'Did you know your father arrived in this town an ass-back "'fifty years ago, up from the back end of Mayo, "'and he didn't have the price of a loaf of bread, "'only for people like my father, "'a respectable merchant in town, "'he'd still be on the ass-back, down in the back end "'of God-only-knows-where, dragging himself round. "'Now, will you ever get yourself together for pity's sake? "'And when Mr. McMaster comes this evening with Mr. McLiamore, "'I want you to behave like the gentleman I married.' "'I'm sorry, Josie,' said Sonny. "'When I seen the bullock I was more concerned about your safety "'than I was for myself.' "'That seemed to do the trick. "'Otherwise he knew Josie's vow of silence could last for days.' "'And Hugh McMaster and his brother-in-law Michal McLiamore "'were all style actors. "'They were classically trained and could perform parts "'from Shakespeare's tragedies and Irish drama. "'This was their first time to play in Jogle Crease Hall. "'A lot of stage actors stayed at the Vines at that time, "'but none as powerful or as important as Hugh and Michal. "'When the evening came and Sonny bucketed "'the remaining bullock dung from the footpath outside the door, "'he was tired. "'It had been a long day. "'Up the street the cheap jack was closing up the stall for the night. "'Bits of cardboard boxes were scattered around, "'evidence that he had had a good day. "'On the other side of the street the second-hand clothes dealer "'was busy stacking his second-hand suits "'inside his cut-down Morris Minor van trailer. "'Even the black man selling crocodile oil did well. "'He managed to convince everyone he had cures for all ailments "'at a low cost. "'As Sonny White took feet on the foot-scraper outside the door, "'he could hear voices in the background. "'Excuse me, good sir. "'We were wondering if you could help us,' someone said. "'Sorry, we're finished now for today,' Sonny said. "'He didn't realise straightaway who the two men were. "'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Sonny when he turned round. "'You must be Mr. McMaster and Mr. Leomore.' "'Yes, and you must be Mr. Devine,' Sonny smiled. "'Come in,' he said. "'My wife Josie is anxious to meet you. "'Did Joe Gilcrease send you down?' "'Well, he did,' came the answer. "'He suggested we might have a word with you about possible lodgings. "'We hoped to stay in town for the week.' "'As the two men entered the house, the once-quite Josie appeared. "'She was dressed in an evening gown with an outrageous feather stole. "'She flaunted herself round the pair like a debutante on her first date. "'Come, gentlemen,' she said with a refined cultured accent. "'You must be famished. "'I'll have some of the servants prepare you a meal. "'Here, sit down by the fireplace. "'A glass of hot whisky, perhaps. "'Any particular brand?' "'Sonny couldn't believe the change that had come over his wife. "'He thought she must have slipped on a slate or witnessed a miracle. "'What was wrong? "'How could this once-quite little woman who agreed with everyone change to this? "'He was astonished. "'Sonny,' said Josie, clicking her fingers, "'will you take the gentlemen's cases up to their room? "'It's No. 42, the fourth on the right.' "'Then turning to the gentlemen, she said, "'I hope you don't mind me calling you by your first names. "'It's as if I've known you all my life. "'I never miss one of your plays on the radio, "'and I think your version of Othello is far superior to that of Olivier and you.' "'Oh, not at all, Mrs. Devine,' said the actors. "'Only if you permit us to call you Josie. "'It is Josie, isn't it?' "'Well, Josie seems to be entirely accurate,' corrected Josie. "'Then the gentlemen asked if it would be possible to see the bathroom. "'Sonny, darling,' said Josie, clicking her fingers, "'will you ever show these two gentlemen the euphemism?' "'Sonny scratched his head with confusion. "'A what? "'What the?' "'Oh, the bathroom, darling, the bathroom.' "'What is wrong with the woman?' he thought. "'There is no bathroom.' "'He was about to explode again. "'Then he thought, "'Come on,' he said, "'I'll show you the bathroom, follow me.' "'He limped his way out the back door "'and down to the lake at the end of the garden. "'There you are,' he said, "'the bathroom.' "'What? "'That's a lake,' said the gentlemen. "'You wanted a bathroom? "'Well, there you have it. "'The biggest bathroom in Ireland. "'Pull the plug when you're finished.' "'He'd had enough nonsense for one day.' "'Last night as I lay dreaming "'of the eleven days gone by "'my mind being bent on rambling "'to Ireland I did fly. "'I stepped on board a vision "'and I followed with the wind "'till first I came to Angkor Wat "'across a sunset hill "'it being on the twenty-third of June "'the day before the fair. "'When Ireland's sons and daughters "'and friends assembled there "'the young, the old, the brave and the bold "'in their duty to fulfil "'at the parish church near Kluge "'a mile from Central Hill "'I went to see my neighbours "'to see what they might say. "'The old ones were all dead and gone "'the young ones home grey. "'I met the tailor Quigley "'he's as bold as ever still "'he used to mend my britches "'when I lived in Central Hill. "'I took a flying dip "'to my one and only love "'she's as white as any lily "'as gentle as a dove "'she threw her arms around me "'saying, Johnny, my love is still "'she is now the farmer's daughter "'the pride of Central Hill. "'I dreamt I had unkissed her "'as in the days of old "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'as many the time before "'but the cock he grew in the morning "'he grew both loud and shrill "'I awoke in California "'many miles from Central Hill. "'I dreamt I had unkissed her "'as in the days of old "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'as many the time before "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'as many the time before "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'as many the time before "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'as many the time before "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'as many the time before "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'as many the time before "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'I awoke in California "'saying, Johnny, you're only joking "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I awoke in California "'I hurried back to my apartment "'I rushed in and I closed the door "'but there on the desk stood the little blue man "'who started to tell me once more "'I love you, I love you,' said the little blue man "'I love you, I love you too, bitch "'I love you' "'He loved me,' said the little blue man "'and scared me right out of my wits "'Four weeks after that I was haunted "'though no one could see him but me "'Right by my side was the little blue man "'wherever I happened to be "'I love you' "'One evening in wild desperation "'I rushed to a rooftop in town "'and over the side pushed the little blue man "'who sang to me all the way down "'I love you, I love you,' said the little blue man "'I love you, I love you too, bitch "'I love you' "'He loved me,' said the little blue man "'and scared me right out of my wits "'I whispered, thank goodness that's over "'I smiled as I hurried outside "'but there on the street stood the little blue man "'who said with a tear in his eye "'I don't love you anymore.'" And that was Becky Johnston singing The Little Blue Man. Well, we've come to the end of the programme for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie who produced the programme. And thank you at home for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to the West Wind Blows. Bye for now. We've come to the end of the programme for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie who produced the programme. Thanks to you at home for listening. Please tune in again next week for another programme from the Irish language. And until we meet again, catch you soon. Goodbye.
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