In the long nights long ago, when the men would sit around my father's fire, no night would pass
that the conversation wouldn't turn to some great personage was in the world at one time.
In our house we'd often talk about Aristotle, although the old people had a more homely name
for him, they used to call him Harrystettle. Seems he was a wonderful teacher and the way he used to
like to teach was walking along the road and through the fields so the pupils they could be
making hay or thinning turnips while they were learning their lessons, for at that time great
store was set by the fact that the young people should know the name and the nature of everything
that grew and everything that ran, of everything that flew and everything that swam. But despite
his great knowledge, the old people used to say that there were three things that Harrystettle
did not understand.
And these three things were the ebb and flow of the tide, the work of the honeybee, and the
fleetness of a woman's mind exceeds the speed of light. There were these two Kerry women,
they were going to town one day. Now this was way back in 1922 in the second trouble and all
the bridges were blown down. So after a heavy night's rain you'd wet more than your
time.
So the old woman was going to town. The woman going to town, she was a little bit in the small
side and she said to the woman who was coming from town who was fairly tall, she said to her,
were you in town? What time is it? What price are eggs? Is the flood high? And as quick as lightning
the woman coming from town said, I was three o'clock one and four point up to my bottom.