Mickie Daly's Diary, February 1934

I was telling my parints about the cricket, and I found out that Father Owe Leery was putting it over on us after all.

I said: "Father Dale had a visiter - a priest from New South Wales. He's a cripple.

Mother put down the tea-pot (we were having our tea) and said in a sympathetic voice:

"The poor man."

"I think he was a .chaplain at the War.”  I suppose a shell got him when he was out in No Man's Land looking for the poor, dying Diggers to give them abserlushin." .

My mother's face took on that glowy look she gets when she hears of anyone doing something noble for God.

"Who said he was a chaplain?" my father asked. .

“No one-but I suppose he must have been. How would he get crippled if he wasn't at the War?"

Does he look very ill?" mother said.

“Not a bit. And he can walk all right. You wouldn't know"

"Then how did you know he was crippled, Michael?”

“He told us. He said he has cork legs,” I replied emfatickly. And then I got a terrible fright. My father had just been going to drink his tea – the cup was at his lips, but it shook and he trembled and was choking, like the monarck saw and shook porty.

I thought my poor father has a stroke like poor Mr. Brown, who can’t speak properly now. My fright lasted only a moment. I saw it was not an apoplecktick fit my father was in, but a fit of larfter.

It turned a look of paned surprise upon my father. I keep that look for him when he gets making fun of me and larfing at me. I was disappointed in him, too – larfing at me when I was telling him a sad story about a hero – a priest, too!

I supposed I had pronounced a word wrongly or used a big word in the wrong place. Still, he need not go larfing at me.

What a day!


Father Dale making fun of my boleing.

Father Owe Leery making jokes about my hare.

And now my own father nearly choking. to death at my bad grammer, or something.

Then I saw that my mother was larflng , softly, too.

That was the last straw indignashin made me forget the Fourth Commandment.

I stood up.

“If your are both ging to larf at me, I’d better leave the table,”  I began.

Mother came round to me.

"It's too bad, larfing at you Michael. But it sounded so funny-“

“What's funny? Did I say a word wrong? Did I use a big word in the wrong place? He's always using big words at me, and then he larfs at other people. I learn them from him anyhow."

Now this was a very rude speech to make. A boy should not referr to his father as I had just done.

But my temper was serjing like a flooded river within me. It was sweeping good manners and the Fourth Commandment away poor Dacey's temper at cricket was just like a little flood in a creek, and mine was like as if the Murray was pouring all over the country.

“ Don’t be angry, Michael, darling," mother said; we are not laughing at you at all really. It is at Father Owe Leery's old joke taking you boys In.''

"His old joke?" I said in a bewildered manner.

"Yes---about his cork legs. He means he's a Cork man- a native of Cork.”

"A capital 'C' makes a.ll the difference, Horace," my father said and then he giggled.

He does. You would not think a man could. But when my father is very much amused he larfs a jolly larf,  and then after he breaks out in giggles every now and then -not like a girl's silly giggle. A nice sound it is.

My anger died down, and I grinned.

“ Isn’t he a trick?" I said. "Wait until the morning, I'll pass it on to Dacey and the boys. They did not see threw it, either."

I then begged my parints' pardon and they forgave me.

All the evening my father would give little giggles. He enjoyed it so much. He says he lives his boy-hood over again in me-all the things that happen to me, happened to him years ago. He says it is simply marvillis the way history is repeating itself in our family. He is always delighted when these coinsidinces occur. They take ten years off his life. He'll be back to a baby soon, I think, he'll be so young.

"Are, yes, Horace, twenty-five years ago a priest passed that one on to us at school one day. I remember telling my father and mother about the poor priest who had cork legs. My father said' 'A lot of men in Ireland have them - poor fellows. It must be the climate'

"But my mother told me afterwards. I thought it was a great joke."

I must get up for Mass to-morrow. I am very sorry for my bad deeds to-day.

(to be continued)

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