When he read it to us in the evening, we were all left with a feeling as if some beautiful white blossom had suddenly fallen at our feet.

It was acted the other day at Ballaghaderreen; and, at the end, a very little girl, who wanted to let the author know how much she had liked his play, put out her hand, and put a piece of toffee into his.

The ‘Nativity’ did not appear in time for Christmas acting; but Ireland, which now and then finds herself possessed of some accidental freedom, has no censor; and a play so beautiful and reverent, and so much in the tradition of the people, is sure to be acted and received reverently.

An Craoibhin has written other plays besides these—­a pastoral play which has been acted in Dublin and Belfast, a match-making comedy, a satire on Trinity College.

Other Irish plays have been acted here and there through the country during the last year or two, some written by priests; the last I saw in manuscript was by a workhouse schoolmaster; and all have had their share of success.  But it is to the poet-scholar who has become actor-dramatist that we must still, as Raftery would put it, ’give the branch.

THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE

HANRAHAN. A wandering poet.

SHEAMUS O’HERAN. Engaged to OONA.

MAURYA. The woman of the house.

SHEELA. A neighbour.

OONA. Maurya’s daughter.

Neighbours and a piper who have come to Maurya’s house for a dance.

SCENE. A farmer’s house in Munster a hundred years ago.  Men and women moving about and standing round the walls as if they had just finished a dance. HANRAHAN, in the foreground, talking to OONA.

The piper is beginning a preparatory drone for another dance, but SHEAMUS brings him a drink and he stops.  A man has come and holds out his hand to OONA, as if to lead her out, but she pushes him away.

OONA.  Don’t be bothering me now; don’t you see I’m listening to what he is saying? (To HANRAHAN) Go on with what you were saying just now.

HANRAHAN.  What did that fellow want of you?

OONA.  He wanted the next dance with me, but I wouldn’t give it to him.

HANRAHAN.  And why would you give it to him?  Do you think I’d let you dance with anyone but myself, and I here?  I had no comfort or satisfaction this long time until I came here to-night, and till I saw yourself.

OONA.  What comfort am I to you?

HANRAHAN.  When a stick is half burned in the fire, does it not get comfort when water is poured on it?

OONA.  But, sure, you are not half burned.

HANRAHAN.  I am; and three-quarters of my heart is burned, and scorched and consumed, struggling with the world, and the world struggling with me.

OONA.  You don’t look that bad.