sessed one, who was a sort
of God's fool to the people, till some new legislation locked them all
up in the work-houses, poor things!

Mick was a rosy-cheeked, innocent-looking lad, touched in the mind,
certainly, but exceedingly harmless, likeable and entertaining. He was
a strong fellow and when he 'took a hate (_i.e._ heat) o' work' he was
as good or better than the best in harvest or hayfield. His softness
procured for him a certain delightful immunity from responsibility. He
worked when in the humour, but race, or fair, or cock-fight, or
football match drew Mick irresistibly from his labours. He was off to
every bit of 'divarsion' in the country, and when there were big races
at a distance Mick generally took the road a day beforehand, sleeping
out in the soft spring night if it was dry weather, trusting to a
convenient haystack or barn if it wasn't. He was known so widely that
at every farmhouse along the road he was sure of a bite. And on the
race-course every one was his friend; and the various parties
picnicking were greeted by Mick with uproarious shouts and a flinging
of his _caubeen_ in the air, to signify his delight at meeting his
friends so far from home.

Mick had the privileges of 'the natural,' as they call an idiot in
Ireland, with only a few of his disabilities. He was even known to
leave the church during a very tedious sermon of Father O'Herlihy's
and smoke a pipe outside while awaiting the rest of the congregation.
When he was tackled about this flagrant disrespect by his pastor, Mick
replied unblushingly, 'Sure, I didn't lave durin' the mass, your
Reverence: 'twas all over but a thing of nothing.' 'What do you mean
by that?' asked his Reverence severely. 'Sure, your Reverence's
sermon, I mane, what else?' responded Mick.

Mick could be violent too in his cups, but somehow even his violence
was humorous. The village butcher once was imprudent enough to
remonstrate with him for drinking, while the drink was yet in him, and
Mick acknowledged the good advice by unhooking a leg of mutton and
belabouring him soundly, to the detriment of himself and his mutton,
till the police interfered. On another occasion he addressed his
energies to the Sisyphus-like task of endeavouring to roll a very
large water-barrel through his mother's very small door, all one
winter night, while his mother alternately coaxed and threatened.
Mick's pranks were endless, but lest they meet with a severer judge
than Mick ever