As well as being a Christmas tale the following is also a story of romance, love and no little debauchery from the bird world. As stories go it is as true as any and it happened in my native town some time between the disappearance of the swallowtail coat and the closure of the Lartigue Railway.
It so happened that two young ladies of the so-called Ascendancy classes arrived at the Arms Hotel one September morning and asked if they might see the manager. In carefully cultivated tones from a mixture of non-Celtic origins they informed him that they required the services of the porter. On being assured that he was available they gave instructions that he was to go at once to the local railway station.
There he would collect a crate which had come all the way from Paris. The crate contained two French doves, gentler than a summer dawn and whiter than the untrodden snow.
Duly, the porter returned to the hotel where he deposited the crate upon a reading table in the foyer.
The young misses of the long-since ousted Ascendancy were delighted and, assuming that the birds must surely be starving procured, again with the aid of the porter, the appropriate birdseed.
The doves, however, refused to dine so it was decided that they should be taken from the crate and examined. Great care was taken since it was widely accepted even then that birds had a preference for the outdoors over the indoors and would frequently take to the skies when opportunity presented itself.
Tenderly they were extracted from the crate and there was great exultation when it was discovered that they were hale and hearty and none the worse for their long journey.
The young misses had planned to take the birds to their suburban home and then, after they had familiarised themselves with the new surrounds, they would be released. It was expected that they would take speedily to their fresh environs and, in the course of time, assume the nationality of their new country. So much for the best laid schemes of doves and damsels!
In the foyer the doves were much admired but unfortunately were being passed rapidly from one pair of inexperienced hands to another so that, eventually, the inevitable happened. A garsún accidentally mishandled the cock of the pair. Did I say they were cock and hen? The cock grasped his chance and flew out of the open door.
There was consternation. A well-known fainter in the company promptly collapsed so that a young lady who held the second dove in her hands lost her concentration. She had also attempted to obstruct the escape of the cock and in so doing gave the French hen the opportunity she had been waiting for. With a gentle fluttering of wings she followed her companion into the sunlight which had begun to brighten the scene outside.
In a flash the crowd in the foyer had emptied itself into the square. There was no sign of the doves. Spotters were dispatched to various parts of the town and to the nearby wood of Gurtenard which was a favourite haunt of local pigeons. Although the search went on all afternoon there was no sign of the missing pair. In their absence life was obliged to go on regardless. The afternoon drifted by and when evening arrived all hope was abandoned.
After all they were innocent strangers with no knowledge of local hawks. How then could they be expected to survive!
However, an observant corner-boy whose wont it was to gaze at the sky all day spotted them on the roof of the hotel, their gleaming whiteness contrasting sublimely with the dark grey slates.
Vainly did the hotel owner, the porter, the two Ascendancy misses and numerous other well-wishers seek to lure them down from their perches. Then one Dinny Cronin appeared on the scene for the first time. Dinny was a local pigeon-fancier and was possessed of a few magnificent specimens. Indeed in those pollution-free days the sky over the dreaming town frequently played host to large flocks of pigeons. The back-yards boasted many pigeon coops and in the mornings the townspeople were frequently serenaded by soft chortlings and other manifestations of pigeonly affection.
Dinny Cronin took stock of the situation for several minutes and eventually came up with the solution.
‘At home,’ said he, ‘I have one of the handsomest cock birds ever seen in this neck of the woods.’
On hearing that the visitors were French, Dinny was taken aback but not for long.
‘My bird might have no French,’ said he, ‘but he has the looks and he has the carriage.’
With everybody’s approval he went home for the cock and returned in jig time with the pride of his flock in his coat pocket. As cocks went he was a strapping fellow, a biller and a cooer, forceful yet demure, a winner and a wooer and a charmer of pigeons from Listowel to Knockanure. Upon beholding the French arrivals he flew upwards till he was out of sight and then tumbled crazily downwards scorning all danger in the service of courtship.
After several such amorous sallies, all calculated to win the heart of the female Frenchie, he alighted on the roof. There followed some intimate bird patter, indistinguishable to all but themselves. It was apparent that there was no language barrier.
‘They speak the language of love,’ said Dinny Cronin, ‘and that’s the same in every land under the sun.’ After the tender, verbal formalities Dinny’s cock bird flew off and circled the nearby Catholic church three times. The Frenchies followed suit leaving the onlookers to believe that they subscribed to the same persuasion as Dinny’s cock bird.
Then the trio disappeared into the fading light and were forgotten for the moment. However, when a week went by without a sign of the vanished ménage there was widespread alarm.
In the ancient town business went on as usual but around the pigeon coops there was little billing and less cooing. Dinny Cronin’s bird was sorely missed. Dinny himself was heartbroken for the missing cock was the pride of his flock.
Then a letter arrived from Paris for the young misses who had ordered the doves in the first place. The letter stated that the pair of doves had arrived back in the French capital accompanied by a dark stranger, a rude fellow with country manners but much admired by members of the opposite sex. There was widespread mourning for it was taken for granted that the Cronin cock would never leave the romantic capital of the known world and who could blame him!
Slowly but surely Christmas drew near with an abundance of freshly revealed humanity and goodwill. Dinny was disconsolate. It looked as if he would never see his pride and joy again. He sat towards the evening of Christmas Eve by the kitchen window pondering the joys of the past and the emptiness of the future.
Then his heart soared. He sat upright when he head the familiar chortle that had melted the hearts of a hundred doves. It was weak and it was hoarse but it was unmistakable. It was his missing cock bird. Dinny jumped to his feet and opened the kitchen window. There on the sill lay his friend, worn and exhausted after his journey from France and from countless other engagements too delicate to disclose and too numerous to mention.
He was received with joy and tears.
‘My poor oul’ cratur,’ said Dinny, ‘them Frenchies went near being the death of you.’
‘Hush!’ said his wife, ‘mustn’t youth have its fling.’ Thereafter there was joy in the pigeon coops of Listowel and Dinny Cronin’s prize cock wandered afar no more.