Their hearts are wild
As be the hearts of birds, till children come.
As be the hearts of birds, till children come.
Yeats
There is a door leading to the
open air at the back, and another door a little to its
left, leading into an inner room. There is a window, a
settle, and a large dresser on the right side of the
room, and a great bowl of primroses on the sill of
the window. MAURTEEN BRUIN, FATHER HART, and BRIDGET
BRUIN are sitting at the table. SHAWN BRUIN is setting
the table for supper. MAIRE BRUIN sits on the settle
reading a yellow manuscript. _
BRIDGET BRUIN.
Because I bade her go and feed the calves,
She took that old book down out of the thatch
And has been doubled over it all day.
We would be deafened by her groans and moans
Had she to work as some do, Father Hart,
Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour;
Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,
The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.
SHAWN BRUIN.
You are too cross.
BRIDGET BRUIN.
The young side with the young.
MAURTEEN BRUIN.
She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,
And is too deep just now in the old book,
But do not blame her greatly; she will grow
As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree
When but the moons of marriage dawn and die
For half a score of times.
FATHER HART.
Their hearts are wild
As be the hearts of birds, till children come.
BRIDGET BRUIN.
She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow,
Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.
FATHER HART.
I never saw her read a book before;
What may it be?
MAURTEEN BRUIN.
I do not rightly know;
It has been in the thatch for fifty years.
My father told me my grandfather wrote it,
Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide.
But draw your chair this way--supper is spread.
And little good he got out of the book,
Because it filled his house with roaming bards,
And roaming ballad-makers and the like,
And wasted all his goods. --Here is the wine:
The griddle bread's beside you, Father Hart.
Colleen, what have you got there in the book
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I,
Or had my father, read or written books
There were no stocking full of silver and gold
To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you.
FATHER HART.
You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.
What are you reading?
open air at the back, and another door a little to its
left, leading into an inner room. There is a window, a
settle, and a large dresser on the right side of the
room, and a great bowl of primroses on the sill of
the window. MAURTEEN BRUIN, FATHER HART, and BRIDGET
BRUIN are sitting at the table. SHAWN BRUIN is setting
the table for supper. MAIRE BRUIN sits on the settle
reading a yellow manuscript. _
BRIDGET BRUIN.
Because I bade her go and feed the calves,
She took that old book down out of the thatch
And has been doubled over it all day.
We would be deafened by her groans and moans
Had she to work as some do, Father Hart,
Get up at dawn like me, and mend and scour;
Or ride abroad in the boisterous night like you,
The pyx and blessed bread under your arm.
SHAWN BRUIN.
You are too cross.
BRIDGET BRUIN.
The young side with the young.
MAURTEEN BRUIN.
She quarrels with my wife a bit at times,
And is too deep just now in the old book,
But do not blame her greatly; she will grow
As quiet as a puff-ball in a tree
When but the moons of marriage dawn and die
For half a score of times.
FATHER HART.
Their hearts are wild
As be the hearts of birds, till children come.
BRIDGET BRUIN.
She would not mind the griddle, milk the cow,
Or even lay the knives and spread the cloth.
FATHER HART.
I never saw her read a book before;
What may it be?
MAURTEEN BRUIN.
I do not rightly know;
It has been in the thatch for fifty years.
My father told me my grandfather wrote it,
Killed a red heifer and bound it with the hide.
But draw your chair this way--supper is spread.
And little good he got out of the book,
Because it filled his house with roaming bards,
And roaming ballad-makers and the like,
And wasted all his goods. --Here is the wine:
The griddle bread's beside you, Father Hart.
Colleen, what have you got there in the book
That you must leave the bread to cool? Had I,
Or had my father, read or written books
There were no stocking full of silver and gold
To come, when I am dead, to Shawn and you.
FATHER HART.
You should not fill your head with foolish dreams.
What are you reading?
