An Irish Imp, Matthew M. Troy [top non fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

Chapter One


“An Irish Imp"


Chapter One


“An Irish Imp”


She sauntered into the local butcher shop, hell bent on mischief, the floor was filled with fresh sawdust three to four inches deep, soaking up the dripping blood from the carcasses that hung from the large meat hooks, which held slabs of beef, lamb, hogget, mutton, pork, and the occasional rabbit. Her hands were hidden from view as if holding something behind her back.
The shop’s owner was a full-time butcher as were his father and grandfather before him who had passed on the family trade, and shop. On his counter sat a brand new shiny brass and porcelain scale, recently purchased from the profits made from his growing business.
The young lass was Mary Ann Byrne, age nine, the picture of innocence written all over her face as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Her younger sister, Terry, age seven, was standing silently by the front screen door that she had held open for Mary as they entered the store.
“SHUT THE BLOOMIN’ DOOR YOUNG LADY”, the butcher roared, “YER LETIN’ THE DAMN FLIES IN”.
“Yes sir.” Terry responded sheepishly.
“Can I help you?” he asked, as he turned his attention to Mary, who was now standing directly in front of the counter.
“I see yea have a brand new scale”, she said politely as she waited coyly for his response.

“Yer a bright lass and yeh have a keen eye”, he answered, as his chest swelled with pride from her astute observation and acknowledgement of his recent purchase.
He strived diligently in his business to keep his butcher shop clean and free of rats, mice, and nasty disease carrying flies. The windows in the shop were tightly fitted with screens and were kept open most of the year allowing the cooler temperature of the outside air to protect the meat stored inside. Since the shop had no heat it was not unusual to see the owner wearing a heavy wool jacket under his bloody apron, and his head covered with a bowler hat, during the colder winter months.
“Can you measure butter on yer shiny new scale?” Mary asked innocently.
“Why, yes, me little colleen, I can measure butter on me scale.” The butcher answered.
“Can yeh measure flour and cheese on yer wonderful scale?” Mary questioned again.
“Yes”, he answered somewhat exasperated with her continuous questions, “ and will there be anythin’ else I can be doin’ for yeh?”
Swinging wildly from behind her back she threw the black and white object she had been hiding onto the butcher’s scale.
“HERE, MEASURE THIS ON YER GRAND SCALE”, she shouted.
The butcher was shocked as the dead black and white cat landed on his scale. It was totally flat from being run over earlier in the day by a lorry, a large low horse-drawn wagon, the same one that delivered the cattle and other animals to the shop.
Mary turned quickly and ran for the door. Terry was already afoot and running towards home as fast as her feet would carry her. They had both gotten away clean.


Mary Ann Byrne’s life began on June 15, 1908, when she was born to Michael and Jane (Dalton) Byrne of 90 Walsh Road, Drumcondra, Dublin, Ireland. She was the second child born to the proud and blessed parents, and her mother, Jane, was ecstatic with the arrival of her second daughter, Kitty, the eldest, was now two years old.
As Jane held her newborn daughter for the first time, she said to Michael, “Look darlin’, isn’t she a beauty?”
Michael was quickly and silently counting his new daughter’s fingers and toes. “Jane, me love, I’m pleased as punch to be sharin’ our new daughter with yeh on this fine and glorious day. Would yeh be lookin’ at her gorgeous face? Sure’n she looks like a wee angel!”
Jane smiled. “Look, Michael,” she said, as she touched the baby’s tiny hands, “the fingers are almost as long as her little legs, I bet she will be our piano player.”

Another time Mary and Terry were sent to the bakery several blocks away to purchase two loaves of freshly baked bread for that evening’s supper. As they ambled to the store Mary spotted the milkman’s wagon up ahead slowing trudging along.
“Let's hitch a ride”, Mary suggested to Terry.
“Okay”, Terry answered. She admired her older sister so much and enjoyed the excitement of the mischievous fun they always had together. They ran after and soon caught up to the milk wagon. The teams of horses were moving along slowly pulling their heavy load as the churn had been recently filled with fresh milk from the nearby dairy farms.
Mary was the first to clamp her tiny little hands with the long fingers onto the rear tailgate of the wooden wagon, a few steps later Terry was hanging on for dear life as the excitement of the free ride captivated her imagination.

“Are yeh having fun, Terry?” Mary whispered into her sister’s ear.
Afraid to speak fearing the driver would hear her Terry just nodded her head with a big contented grin on her freckled face.
“Its time to get be gettin’ off now”. Mary said to her sister as she jumped clear of the wagon.
“Be gettin’ behind the tree with me and watch the fun!” Mary chuckled.
“What are yeh talkin’ about”? Terry asked with a puzzled look.
Unable to control her laughter, Mary said, “Look!” as she pointed to the white trail of milk slowly appearing on the ground behind the wagon as it moved on down the road.
Mary had turned the handle slightly on the milk holding tank allowing the contents to seep out slowly. Cats appeared out of nowhere! All the stray, mangy, one-eyed cats from the streets of Dublin came out that day. The word had been passed noisily throughout the cat kingdom.
“ Meow, meow!” The cats wailed to each other from one location to another. The message was the same from one cat territory to the next. “Meow, meow!” the cats purred. “Fresh milk! Come and get it! Fresh milk!”
Mary, the imp, and her sister, Terry followed the milk wagon from a safe distance. Mary, grinning from ear to ear, once again was quite pleased with herself.
“This is one day the cats of Dublin will be thankin’ me, Mary Ann Byrne, for me kind and charitable behavior."
The wagon turned a corner and disappeared from their view. They continued on to the bakery as if nothing had happened, grinning all the way.


Mary was an active, fun-loving child, who found herself in hot water and trouble more often than not. She was always busy thinking of new shenanigans and monkeyshines to pull.
Mary grew to be a bright child with an impish twinkle in her eye; in fact, she was always busy about doing something, and doing nothing, she was a little rascal, forever busy with her childish, mischievous deeds and pranks. However, things were going along too good, and it was just a matter of time before her mother would uncover her dastardly deeds.
Most of the time Terry was with Mary as they performed their pranks but one summer day Mary ventured out on her own. School had let out and Mary decided she needed money to buy her mom a special pair of boots. She had watched her mother on their last shopping trip as they looked in a display window that showed a beautiful pair of dark brown leather boots that zipped all the way up to the knees.
“Aren’t they simply gorgeous.” Jane said to her daughter.
“Yes Ma they really are beautiful.” Mary agreed.

Early each morning Mary would set off on her own with a couple of old issues of The Irish Press under her arm. She skipped down the sidewalk on her way to the nearby cemetery, and upon arriving there she continued to skip on the hand laid cobblestone lanes that meandered throughout the grounds until she found what she was looking for. Mary glanced left and right as she bounced along the path and usually her keen olfactory senses would lead her to her destination. Turning to her right she followed her nose, and there it was, a large mound of fresh dirt covered with flowers from a recently planted corpse. The aroma of the fresh lilies, white carnations and daisies, gladiolas, and her special favorites the red rose’s always had been a good seller. She gathered up several bouquets and

carefully wrapped them up in the newspapers she had brought. Looking in all directions she hastily took her wrapped bundles and skipped back down the cobblestone lanes until she was out of the cemetery.
She proceeded through the nearby neighborhoods singing loudly as she unwrapped her bundles.
“ FLOWERS, GET YER FRESH FLOWERS, FOUR FOR THRUPENCE, SEVEN FOR SIXPENCE.”
Her prices were low and business was good, and several return trips were made to her supplier, since there were no costs her profits were extremely good. Occasionally, she would share a copper or two of her ill-gained profits with her younger sister, Terry, and confided her secret to her.
It seems that Mary was having too much fun, and one of her sisters spilled the beans to their mother.
“SHE DID WHAT?” Jane roared.
The story of the Mary’s filching flowers from the cemetery was repeated to Jane.
“SHE HAS BEEN STEALING FLOWERS FROM THE CEMETERY AND SELLING THEM ON THE STREET?” Jane questioned, by now she was fuming.
“I didn’t t'ink, I was doin’ any wrong Ma”. Mary said.
“Its not like the old codgers are going to use the flowers”. Mary tried explaining, but was just getting herself into deeper trouble.
“WHY YER NOTHIN’ MORE THAN A GRAVE ROBBER.” Jane screamed.
“I’m really sorry Ma”. Mary said contritely.
Jane was having none of it.


“BLASPHEMY AND A SACRILEGE, THAT’S WHAT IT IS, BRIGGIN’ DISGRACE DOWN UPON THE FAMILY NAME.” Jane was deeply troubled.
Jane was not letting up.
“AREN’T YEH PROUD OF YERSELF NOW?” She yelled at Mary.
“I was just tryin’ to help yeh, Ma, by earning a few coppers sellin’ the flowers like yeh do! Here’s the two shillin’s and sixpence I collected today, Ma.” Mary sputtered.

Jane raised the most beautiful flowers in her own garden and sold them for extra money. She wheeled her pushcart, with its colorful array, down the cobblestone streets of Dublin. Anyone could find Jane Byrne on Grafton Street in Dublin in the early morning hours singing, “Flowers! Get yer fresh flowers.”

“YER A SACRILEGIOUS LITTLE SHITE AND YER COMING WITH ME RIGHT NOW TO THE PRIESTS HOUSE.” Jane shrieked.
Grabbing Mary by the lobe of the ear, Jane literally pulled her out of the house and down the street. Moments later they arrived at the rectory.
“YER GOIN’ STRAIGHT TO HELL!” Mary’s mother shouted.
Jane decided to put the fear of God into her daughter. Mary was becoming more