Daoine Bochta, by Liam Ó Flaithearta published in Fáinne an Lae (19 Lúnasa 1925); text from Dúil (Galway 1953), pp. 86-88.
Tháinig fear agus fear eile den bhaile, deifir orthu ar fad, ag rith anuas tríd an ngaineamh bog. Bheannaigh siad uilig do Phádraig agus d'fhiafraigh dhe cén chaoi a raibh a mhac.
‘Á! Muise, go suarach,’ ar seisean, ‘Tá faitíos orm nach bhfeicfidh sé an féar ag fás arís.’
‘Á, a Mhuire is trua,’ ar siadsan go cráite. Is crua le bochta cruatan na mbocht.
D’éirigh an ghrian. Scairt solas an lae ar an tír, ar an trá, ar an bhfarraige. Dhúisigh éanacha an aeir agus chuireadar a gceol binn uathu ag rince trí dhoimhneas na spéire. Bhí brat feamainne ag lonradh ar an trá; dearg ar nós fola, ar a scairteann grian, in aghaidh dúghoirm na farraige préachta. Bhí carnán mór bailithe ag Pádraig Ó Direáin — deich mbord capaill.
Chuaigh sé abhaile. Lag tar éis tinnis is ar éigean a bhí sé in ann an bóthar a shiúl agus a ioscadaí losctha leis an sáile. Agus anois ag triall abhaile, meabhraíodh dó arís an dobhrón a bhí ansiúd ag faire air, éagaoineadh cráite agus uaigh á hoscailt ...
Bhí a theach ar cheann an bhaile, teachín fada, geal, faoi bhrat aoil; an tuí go cúramach ar a cheann, gach uile rud glan pioctha ar fuaid na sráide; craobhacha beaga glasa ag fás ag bun an tí. Bean mhaith. Fear maith.
Sa gcistin, ní raibh ach bean chomharsan ina suí ar stól os comhair tine bhriogadáin, ag iarraidh ciotal a chur ar fiuchadh. Bheannaigh sí dhó i gcogar.
‘Cá bhfuil Bríd?’ ar seisean.
‘Chuaigh sí amach ag cuartú braon bainne le haghaidh an tae. Tá an bord réitithe sa seomra mór. Gabh siar. Tá an ciotal beagnach fiuchta. Beidh sí isteach ar an nóiméad leis an mbainne.’
Níor bhreathnaigh sí air. Sheas sé, a bhéal ag iarraidh labhairt, ag dearcadh ar dhoras an tseomra bhig, áit a raibh an maicín ina luí.
‘An . . . an bhfuil aon athrú air?’ a deir sé go lag.
Chroith sí a ceann.
‘Gabh siar,’ a deir sí arís.
‘Gabhfad isteach go bhfeicfead . . .’
‘Ná téirigh,’ a deir sí, ag éirí go tobann, ‘tá suan beag air agus ní bheidh ach briseadh croí ort ag breathnú air. Siar leat agus suigh chun boird.’
Poor People, by Liam O’ Flaherty (translated by Dr Margo Griffin-Wilson)
One man after another came from the village, all of them in a hurry, running down through the soft sand. They all greeted Pádraig and they asked him how his son was.
‘Ah! Indeed, poorly’, said he. ‘I am afraid that he will not see the grass growing again.’
‘Ah, Mother of God, it’s a pity’, they said, grievously. The poor understand the hardship the poor.
The sun rose. The light of the day burst out upon the land, upon the strand, upon the sea. The birds of the air awakened, and they sent out their sweet music through the depths of the sky. A cloak of seaweed was shining on the strand; red like blood, upon which the sunlight shone, against the dark-blue of the cold sea. Pádraig Ó Direáin had gathered a large heap [of seaweed]—ten horse-loads.
He went home. Weak after an illness, he was scarcely able to walk the road with the hollow at the back of his knees stung by the salt water. And now heading homewards, he was reminded again of the sorrow that was there waiting for him, the tormented lamentation and the grave being opened...
His house was at the head of the village, a long, bright little house under a cloak of lime; the thatch carefully [put] upon its roof, everything clean and neat throughout the area; small green branches growing at the base of the house. A good woman. A good man.
In the kitchen, there was only a neighbourhood woman sitting on a stool in front of a meagre fire trying to set a kettle boiling. She greeted him in a whisper.
‘Where is Bríd?’ he said.
‘She went out looking for a drop of milk for the tea. The table is set in the large room. Go back [there]. The kettle is nearly boiled. She will be inside in a minute with the milk.’
She did not look at him. He stood, his mouth trying to speak, staring at the door of the small room, the place where the small boy was lying.
‘Is there.... is there any change in him?’ he says weakly.
She shook her head.
‘Go back [into the large room],’ she says again.
‘I’ll go inside so that I shall see . . .’
‘Don’t go,’ she says, ‘getting up suddenly, ‘he is dozing, and you will only be broken hearted looking at him. Go back and sit at the table.’
