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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 45 pages of information about Stories of Red Hanrahan.

As to Hanrahan, when he knew he was shut out and that there was neither shelter nor drink nor a girl’s ear for him that night, the anger and the courage went out of him, and he went on to where the waves were beating on the strand.

He sat down on a big stone, and he began swinging his right arm and singing slowly to himself, the way he did always to hearten himself when every other thing failed him.  And whether it was that time or another time he made the song that is called to this day ’The Twisting of the Rope,’ and that begins, ’What was the dead cat that put me in this place,’ is not known.

But after he had been singing awhile, mist and shadows seemed to gather about him, sometimes coming out of the sea, and sometimes moving upon it.  It seemed to him that one of the shadows was the queen-woman he had seen in her sleep at Slieve Echtge; not in her sleep now, but mocking, and calling out to them that were behind her:  ‘He was weak, he was weak, he had no courage.’  And he felt the strands of the rope in his hand yet, and went on twisting it, but it seemed to him as he twisted, that it had all the sorrows of the world in it.  And then it seemed to him as if the rope had changed in his dream into a great water-worm that came out of the sea, and that twisted itself about him, and held him closer and closer, and grew from big to bigger till the whole of the earth and skies were wound up in it, and the stars themselves were but the shining of the ridges of its skin.  And then he got free of it, and went on, shaking and unsteady, along the edge of the strand, and the grey shapes were flying here and there around him.  And this is what they were saying, ’It is a pity for him that refuses the call of the daughters of the Sidhe, for he will find no comfort in the love of the women of the earth to the end of life and time, and the cold of the grave is in his heart for ever.  It is death he has chosen; let him die, let him die, let him die.’

HANRAHAN AND CATHLEEN THE DAUGHTER OF HOOLIHAN.

It was travelling northward Hanrahan was one time, giving a hand to a farmer now and again in the hurried time of the year, and telling his stories and making his share of songs at wakes and at weddings.

He chanced one day to overtake on the road to Collooney one Margaret Rooney, a woman he used to know in Munster when he was a young man.  She had no good name at that time, and it was the priest routed her out of the place at last.  He knew her by her walk and by the colour of her eyes, and by a way she had of putting back the hair off her face with her left hand.  She had been wandering about, she said, selling herrings and the like, and now she was going back to Sligo, to the place in the Burrough where she was living with another woman, Mary Gillis, who had much the same story as herself.  She would be well pleased, she said, if he would come and stop in the house with them, and be singing his songs to

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