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Maurice Connor was the king, and that's no small word, of all the
pipers in Munster. He could play jig and reel without end, and
Ollistrum's March, and the Eagle's Whistle, and the Hen's
Concert, and odd tunes of every sort and kind. But he knew one
far more surprising than the rest, which had in it the power to
set everything dead or alive dancing.
In what way he learned it is beyond my knowledge for he was
mighty cautious about telling how he came by so wonderful a tune.
At the very first note of that tune the shoes began shaking upon
the feet of all how heard it--old or young, it mattered not--just
as if the shoes had the ague; then the feet began going, going,
going from under them, and at last up and away with them, dancing
like mad, whisking here, there, and everywhere, like a straw in a
storm-- there was no halting while the music lasted.
Not a fair, nor a wedding, nor a feast in the seven parishes
round, was counted worth the speaking of without 'blind Maurice
and his pipes.' His mother, poor woman, used to lead him about
from one place to another just like a dog.
Down through Iveragh, Maurice Connor and his mother were taking
their rounds. Beyond all other places Iveragh is the place for
stormy coasts and steep mountains, as proper a spot it is as any
in Ireland to get yourself drowned, or your neck broken on the
land, should you prefer that. But, notwithstanding, in
Ballinskellig Bay there is a neat bit of ground, well fitted for
diversion, and down from it, towards the water, is a clean smooth
piece of strand, the dead image of a calm summer's sea on a
moonlight night, with just the curl of the small waves upon it.
Here is was that Maurice's music had brought from all parts a
great gathering of the young men and the young women; for 'twas
not every day the strand of Trafraska was stirred up by the voice
of a bagpipe. The dance began; and as pretty a dance it was as
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Fairytales 
