the
ague; then the feet began going, going, going from under them, and at
last up and away with them, dancing like mad, whisking here, there, and
everywhere, like a straw in a storm--there was no halting while the
music lasted.

Not a fair, nor a wedding, nor a feast in the seven parishes round, was
counted worth the speaking of without 'blind Maurice and his pipes.' His
mother, poor woman, used to lead him about from one place to another
just like a dog.

Down through Iveragh, Maurice Connor and his mother were taking their
rounds. Beyond all other places Iveragh is the place for stormy coasts
and steep mountains, as proper a spot it is as any in Ireland to get
yourself drowned, or your neck broken on the land, should you prefer
that. But, notwithstanding, in Ballinskellig Bay there is a neat bit of
ground, well fitted for diversion, and down from it, towards the water,
is a clean smooth piece of strand, the dead image of a calm summer's sea
on a moonlight night, with just the curl of the small waves upon it.

Here it was that Maurice's music had brought from all parts a great
gathering of the young men and the young women; for 'twas not every day
the strand of Trafraska was stirred up by the voice of a bagpipe. The
dance began; and as pretty a dance it was as ever was danced. 'Brave
music,' said everybody, 'and well done,' when Maurice stopped.

'More power to your elbow, Maurice, and a fair wind in the bellows,'
cried Paddy Dorman, a humpbacked dancing master, who was there to keep
order. ''Tis a pity,' said he, 'if we'd let the piper run dry after such
music; 'twould be a disgrace to Iveragh, that didn't come on it since
the week of the three Sundays.' So, as well became him, for he was
always a decent man, says he, 'Did you drink, piper?'

'I will, sir,' said Maurice, answering the question on the safe side,
for you never yet knew piper or schoolmaster who refused his drink.

'What will you drink, Maurice?' says Paddy.

'I'm no ways particular,' says Maurice; 'I drink anything barring _raw_
water; but if it's all the same to you, Mister Dorman, may-be you
wouldn't lend me the loan of a glass of whisky.'

'I've no glass, Maurice,' said Paddy; 'I've only the bottle.'

'Let that be no hindrance,' answered Maurice; 'my mouth just holds a
glass to the drop; often I've tried it sure.'

So Paddy Dorman trusted him with the bottle--more fool was he; and, to
his cost, he found that though Maurice's mouth might no