Test Bank for Fundamentals of Corporate Finance 9th Edition by Brealey Myers

Marcus ISBN 1259722619 9781259722615

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Chapter 02 Test Bank - Static

Student:

1. Only small companies can go through financial markets to obtain financing.

True False

2. The reinvestment of cash back into the firm's operations is an example of a flow of savings to investment.

True False

3. Smaller businesses are especially dependent upon internally generated funds.

True False

4. An individual can save and invest in a corporation by lending money to it or by purchasing additional shares.

True False

5. Previously issued securities are traded among investors in the secondary markets.

True False

6. Only the IPOs for large corporations are sold in primary markets.

True False

7. Hedge fund managers, unlike mutual fund managers, do not receive fund-performance-related fees.

True False

8. The markets for long-term debt and equity are called capital markets.

True False

9. The stocks of major corporations trade in many markets throughout the world on a continuous or near-continuous basis.
True False
10. The market for derivatives is also a source of financing for corporations.

True False

11. During the Financial Crisis of 2007-2009, the U.S. government bailed out all firms in danger of failing.

True False

12. In the United States, banks are the most important source of long-term financing for corporations.

True False
13. A financial intermediary invests in financial assets rather than real assets.

True False

14. Households hold directly three quarters of U.S. corporate equities.

True False

15. The key to the banks' ability to make illiquid loans is their ability to pool liquid deposits from thousands of depositors.

True False

16. From June 2001 to June 2006, house prices in the United States rose sharply.

True False

17. For corporate bonds, the higher the credit quality of an issuer, the higher the interest rate.

True False

18. The cost of capital is the interest rate paid on a loan from a bank or some other financial institution.

True False

19. Like public companies, private companies can also use their stock price as a measure of performance.

True False

20. The opportunity cost of capital is the expected rate of return that shareholders can obtain in the financial markets on investments
with the same risk as the firm's capital investments.

True False

21. Once Apple Computer had become a public company, it was able to raise financing from venture capital companies

True False

22. Insurance companies provide a mechanism for individuals to pool their risks.

True False

23. Financial markets and intermediaries allow investors and businesses to reduce and reallocate risk.

True False

24. The effects of the financial crisis of 2007-2009 were confined to the U.S. and domestic companies.

True False

25. The cost of capital is the minimum acceptable rate of return for capital investment.

True False
26. One root of the financial crisis of 2007-2009 was the strict money policies promoted by the U.S. Federal Reserve and other
central banks after the technology bubble burst (i.e., money was relatively expensive during this time).

True False

27. The rates of return on investments outside the corporation set the minimum return for investment projects inside the
corporation.

True False

28. Financing for public corporations must flow through financial markets.

True False

29. Financing for private companies must flow through financial intermediaries such as mutual funds.

True False

30. Almost all foreign exchange trading occurs on the floors of the FOREX exchanges in New York and London.

True False

31. Corporate financing comes ultimately from:

A. savings by households and foreign investors.

B. cash generated from the firm's operations.
C. the financial markets and intermediaries.
D. the issue of shares in the firm.

32. A company can pay for its expansion in all the following ways except:

A. by using the earnings generated from its sale of obsolete equipment.

B. by persuading a director's mother to make a personal loan to the company.
C. by purchasing bonds in the secondary market.
D. by plowing back part of its profits.

33. "Reinvestment" means:

A. new investment in new operations.

B. additional investment in existing operations.
C. new investment by new shareholders.
D. the reinvestment of earnings into new projects.

34. Financing for public corporations flows through:

A. the financial markets only.

B. financial intermediaries only.
C. derivatives markets.
D. the financial markets, financial intermediaries, or both.
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 “And the priest?” said my father.
“My father quarrelled with him last week about the Easter dues, and
Father Tom said he’d not give him the ‘rites’; and that’s lucky now!
Come along now, quick, for we’ve no time to lose; it must be all finished
before the day breaks.”
My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his
big coat ’round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up
in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in
a costume light as my parent’s, set out after them, to watch the course of
the adventure. I thought to take a short cut and be before them; but by
bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a
chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already
begun. I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat
on a little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed
the proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and
beside it a table, with physic-bottles, and spoons, and tea-cups; a little
farther off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner
of writing materials before him. The country people sat two, sometimes
three deep round the walls, all intently eager and anxious for the coming
event. Peter himself went from place to place, trying to smother his grief,
and occasionally helping the company to whisky—which was supplied
with more than accustomed liberality. All my consciousness of the deceit
and trickery could not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The
misty distance of the half-lighted room; the highly-wrought expression
of the country people’s faces, never more intensely excited than at some
moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by
a sigh or a sob—the tribute of some affectionate sorrow to some lost
friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back; these, I repeat it,
were all so real that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me,
and I actually shook with fear.
A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed
to cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing
of a fly would have been heard, my father said—
“Where’s Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!”
“He’s here, father!” said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading
him to the bedside.
 “Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick, for I hav’n’t a long time
before me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O’Rafferty won’t
give me the ‘rites’!”
A general chorus of “Oh, musha, musha,” was now heard through the
room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the
unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.
“I die in peace with all my neighbours and all mankind!”
Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable
expressions.
“I bequeath unto my son, Peter—and never was there a better son, or
a decenter boy!—have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the
whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboorn, with
the fallow meadows behind Lynch’s house; the forge, and the right of
turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lanty
Cassarn’s acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln—and that reminds
me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug.”
Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably
refreshed by it.
“Where was I, Billy Scanlan?” says he; “oh, I remember, at the
limekiln; I leave him—that’s Peter, I mean—the two potato-gardens at
Noonan’s Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there.”
“An’t you gettin’ wake, father, darlin’?” says Peter, who began to be
afraid of my father’s loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got
into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.
“I am, Peter, my son,” says he, “I am getting wake; just touch my lips
again with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!”
“No, indeed, father, but it’s the taste is leavin’ you,” says Peter; and
again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.
“Well, I’m nearly done now,” says my father; “there’s only one little
plot of ground remaining, and I put it on you, Peter—as ye wish to live a
good man, and die with the same asy heart I do now—that ye mind my
last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbours listening? Is
Billy Scanlan listening?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, father. We’re all minding,” chorused the audience.
 “‘YOU WATERED THE DRINK!’ ‘NO, INDEED, FATHER, BUT IT’S THE TASTE IS
LEAVIN’ YOU,’ SAYS PETER.”

“Well, then, it’s my last will and testament, and may—give me over
the jug”—here he took a long drink—“and may that blessed liquor be
poison to me if I’m not as eager about this as every other part of my will;
I say, then, I bequeath the little plot at the cross-roads to poor Con
Cregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hard-working
a man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want
while ye have it yerself; think of me on my death-bed whenever he asks
ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to
Con Cregan and his heirs, in secla seclorum. Ah, blessed be the saints!
but I feel my heart lighter after that,” says he; “a good work makes an
easy conscience; and now I’ll drink all the company’s good health, and
many happy returns——”
What he was going to add there’s no saying; but Peter, who was now
terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried
all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.
When they were all gone Peter slipped back to my father, who was
putting on his brogues in a corner.
“Con,” says he, “ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the
two acres at the cross.”
 “Of course it was,” says he; “sure it was all a joke for the matter of
that; won’t I make the neighbours laugh hearty to-morrow when I tell
them all about it!”
“You wouldn’t be mean enough to betray me?” says Peter, trembling
with fright.
“Sure ye wouldn’t be mean enough to go against yer father’s dying
words?” says my father; “the last sentence ever he spoke;” and here he
gave a low, wicked laugh that made myself shake with fear.
“Very well, Con!” says Peter, holding out his hand; “a bargain’s a
bargain; yer a deep fellow, that’s all!” and so it ended; and my father
slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy
he left himself. And thus we became the owners of the little spot known
to this day as Con’s Acre.
Charles Lever.
 KATEY’S LETTER.

Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter?
And although he cannot read, sure, I thought ’twas all the better,
For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,
When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully?
I love him faithfully—
And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;

’Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet—
For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,
As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.
I love him faithfully—
And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;
The neighbours know I love him, and they’re mighty fond of chaffing,
So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be laughing,
So I wrote “From Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.”
I love him faithfully—
And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.

Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman’s so consated,

No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited—
But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,
That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me faithfully,
He loves me faithfully,
And I know where’er my love is that he is true to me.
Lady Dufferin (1807–1867).
“AS I SAID INSIDE THE LETTER THAT I LOVED HIM FAITHFULLY.”
 DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER YOUR FEET.

“Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel—

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;
Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,
Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.
The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;
While all the air rings with the soft loving things
Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley!”

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,

Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;
’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,—
So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.
And now on the green the glad groups are seen,
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,—
Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;
With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,—
The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.
Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe’s,
Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,—
Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,—
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,—
Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;
The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,
“Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!”
John Francis Waller, LL.D. (1809–1894).
 FATHER TOM’S WAGER WITH THE POPE.
“I’d hould you a pound,” says the Pope, “that I’ve a quadruped in my
possession that’s a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel.”
“Done,” says his riv’rence, and they staked the money. “What can this
larned quadhruped o’ yours do?” says his riv’rence.
“It’s my mule,” says the Pope; “and if you were to offer her goolden
oats and clover off the meadows o’ Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she’d
let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or holiday in the
year.”
“Well, and what ’ud you say if I showed you a baste ov mine,” says
his riv’rence, “that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only, fasts out
the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday in the
week as reg’lar as a Christian?”
“Oh, be asy, Misther Maguire,” says the Pope.
“You don’t b’lieve me, don’t you?” says his riv’rence; “very well, I’ll
soon show you whether or no,” and he put his knuckles in his mouth, and
gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The aycho,
my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish, when
the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be
sitting next the door, betuxt him and his riv’rence, and may I never die if
he didn’t clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang.
 “‘HERE, SPRING, MY MAN,’ SAYS HE.”

“God’s presence be about us!” says the Pope, thinking it was an evil
spirit come to fly away wid him for the lie that he hed tould in regard ov
his mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in grazing
the brute’s teeth); but seeing it was only one ov the greatest beauties ov a
greyhound that he’d ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he soon recovered
ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris and went to the
sideboard, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice ov beef, a slice ov
mutton, and a slice ov salmon, and put them all on a plate thegither.
“Here, Spring, my man,” says he, setting the plate down afore him on the
hearthstone, “here’s your supper for you this blessed Friday night.” Not a
word more he said nor what I tell you; and, you may believe it or not, but
it’s the blessed truth that the dog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and
spitting it out again, lifted his nose out ov the plate, and stood wid his
jaws wathering, and his tail wagging, looking up in his riv’rence’s face,
as much as to say, “Give me your absolution, till I hide them temptations
out ov my sight.”
 “There’s a dog that knows his duty,” says his riv’rence; “there’s a
baste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlour or the field.
You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you seen him
on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you’d say the hill was
running away from undher him. Oh, I wisht you had been wid me,” says
he, never letting on to see the dog at all, “one day last Lent, that I was
coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile behind me, for
the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at the chapel door;
when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov Grouse Lodge
and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and knowing that she’d
take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through
Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping her in view, but afore
I hed gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away the two went like the
wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over the river, widout his
being able onst to turn her. Well, I run on till I came to the Diffagher, and
through it I went, for the wather was low, and I didn’t mind being wet
shod, and out on the other side, where I got up on a ditch, and seen sich a
coorse as I’ll be bound to say was never seen afore or since. If Spring
turned that hare onst that day, he turned her fifty times, up and down,
back and for’ard, throughout and about. At last he run her right into the
big quarry-hole in Mullaghbawn, and when I went up to look for her fud,
there I found him sthretched on his side, not able to stir a fut, and the
hare lying about an inch afore his nose as dead as a door-nail, and divil a
mark ov a tooth upon her. Eh, Spring, isn’t that thrue?” says he.
Jist at that minit the clock sthruck twelve, and afore you could say
thrap-sticks, Spring had the plateful ov mate consaled. “Now,” says his
riv’rence, “hand me over my pound, for I’ve won my bet fairly.”
“You’ll excuse me,” says the Pope, pocketing the money, “for we put
the clock half-an-hour back, out ov compliment to your riv’rence,” says
he, “and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all.”
“Well, it’s no matter,” says his riv’rence, “only,” says he, “it’s hardly
fair to expect a brute baste to be so well skilled in the science ov
chronology.”
Sir Samuel Ferguson (1810–1886).
 THE OULD IRISH JIG.

My blessing be on you, old Erin,

My own land of frolic and fun;
For all sorts of mirth and diversion,
Your like is not under the sun.
Bohemia may boast of her polka,
And Spain of her waltzes talk big;
Sure, they are all nothing but limping,
Compared with our ould Irish jig.

Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,

Imported from Spain and from France;
And a fig for the thing called the polka—
Our own Irish jig we will dance.

I’ve heard how our jig came in fashion—

And believe that the story is true—
By Adam and Eve ’twas invented,
The reason was, partners were few.
And, though they could both dance the polka,
Eve thought it was not over-chaste;
She preferred our ould jig to be dancing—
And, faith, I approve of her taste.

Then a fig, etc.

The light-hearted daughters of Erin,

Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,
Their feet never touch the green island,
But music is struck from the ground.
And oft in the glens and green meadows,
The ould jig they dance with such grace,
That even the daisies they tread on,
Look up with delight in their face.

Then a fig, etc.

An ould Irish jig, too, was danced by
The kings and the great men of yore;
King O’Toole could himself neatly foot it
To a tune they call “Rory O’More.”
And oft in the great hall of Tara,
Our famous King Brian Boru,
Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,
And played his own harp to them, too.

Then a fig, etc.

And sure, when Herodias’ daughter

Was dancing in King Herod’s sight,
His heart that for years had been frozen,
Was thawed with pure love and delight;
And more than a hundred times over,
I’ve heard Father Flanagan tell,
’Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,
That pleased the ould villain so well.

Then a fig, etc.

James M’Kowen (1814–1889).

 MOLLY MULDOON.

Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,

And as fine a one
As you’d look upon
In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.
Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,
And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;
Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,
But owned that a power o’ beauty was there.
Now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon,
Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,
Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,
But for that in her eye
Which made most of them shy
And look quite ashamed, though they couldn’t tell why—
Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,
And heart and mind seemed in them blended.
If intellect sent you one look severe,
Love instantly leapt in the next to mend it.
Hers was the eye to check the rude,
And hers the eye to stir emotion,
To keep the sense and soul subdued,
And calm desire into devotion.

There was Jemmy O’Hare,

As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair,
And wherever Molly was he was there.
His face was round and his build was square,
And he sported as rare
And tight a pair
Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.
And Jemmy would wear
His caubeen[17] and hair
With such a peculiar and rollicking air,
That I’d venture to swear
 Not a girl in Kildare,
Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there,
Could resist his wild way—called “Devil may care.”
Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,
Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run
With Jemmy—no gorsoon could equal him—none,
At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,
At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight,—
He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight.

Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare,

And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.
I believe in my conscience a purtier pair
Never danced in a tent at a patthern in June,—
To a bagpipe or fiddle
On the rough cabin-door
That is placed in the middle—
Ye may talk as ye will,
There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there
With which people of quality couldn’t compare.
And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two
That could keep up the longest and go the best through
All the jigs and the reels
That have occupied heels
Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.

It was on a long bright sunny day

They sat on a green knoll side by side,
But neither just then had much to say;
Their hearts were so full that they only tried
To do anything foolish, just to hide
What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.
They plucked the speckled daisies that grew
Close by their arms,—then tore them too;
And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk
They threw at each other for want of talk;
While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,
Reflected pure souls without art or guile;
And every time Molly sighed or smiled,
 Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;
And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,
The grass so green, the daisies so white;
Everything looked so gay in his sight
That gladly he’d linger to watch them till night—
And Molly herself thought each little bird,
Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,—
Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.

An Irish courtship’s short and sweet,

It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;
But who is wise when his young heart’s heat
Whips the pulse to a galloping beat—
Ties up his judgment neck and feet,
And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?
Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,
Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;
They look not by art, and they love not by rule,
For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school.
Oh! give me the love that endures no control
But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,
As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,
Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.
Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,
By rank unallured and by riches unbought;
Whose very simplicity keeps it secure—
The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.

All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,

As one week before Lent
Jem procured her consent
To go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.
Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,
And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see.
And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep,
For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.
A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,
He took from a chest and carefully put on—
And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,
Were greased with the fat of a quare sort of mutton!
Then a tidier gorsoon couldn’t be seen
Treading the Emerald Isle so green—
Light was his step, and bright was his eye,
As he walked through the slobbery streets of Athy.
And each girl he passed bid “God bless him” and sighed,
While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.

Hush! here’s the Priest—let not the least

Whisper be heard till the father has ceased.
“Come, bridegroom and bride,
That the knot may be tied
Which no power on earth can hereafter divide.”
Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,
And a passage was made for them both to walk through;
And his Riv’rence stood with a sanctified face,
Which spread its infection around the place.
The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,
Who felt so confused that she almost cried,
But at last bore up and walked forward, where
The Father was standing with solemn air;
The bridegroom was following after with pride,
When his piercing eye something awful espied!
He stopped and sighed,
Looked round and tried
To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:
With a spring and a roar
He jumped to the door,
A !

Some years sped on,

Yet heard no one
Of Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone.
But since the night of that widow’d feast,
The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;
Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul released,
Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.
And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,
Just five years after the widow’d feast,
 An American letter was brought to the priest,
Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceased!
Who, ere his death,
With his latest breath,
To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,
And the cause of his sudden departure confest.—
“Oh, Father,” says he, “I’ve not long to live,
So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive—
That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;
Ay, as well as the Creed
That was never forsaken by one of my breed;
But I couldn’t have married her, after I saw—”
“Saw what?” cried the Father, desirous to hear—
And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking—
“Not in her karàcter, yer Riv’rince, a flaw”—
The sick man here dropped a significant tear,
And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear—
“But I saw, God forgive her, !”

THE MORAL.

Lady readers, love may be

Fixed in hearts immovably,
May be strong and may be pure;
Faith may lean on faith secure,
Knowing adverse fate’s endeavour
Makes that faith more firm than ever;
But the purest love and strongest,
Love that has endured the longest,
Braving cross, and blight, and trial,
Fortune’s bar or pride’s denial,
Would—no matter what its trust—
Be uprooted by disgust:—
Yes, the love that might for years
Spring in suffering, grow in tears,
Parents’ frigid counsel mocking,
Might be—where’s the use of talking?—
Upset by a !
 Anonymous.

“WITH A SPRING AND A ROAR HE JUMPED TO THE DOOR.”

“THE GANDHER ID BE AT HIS HEELS, AN’ RUBBIN’ HIMSELF AGIN HIS LEGS.”
 THE QUARE GANDER.
Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do, an’ he rinted the
biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an’ bein’ mighty cute an’ a
sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every
harvest; but unluckily he was blessed with an iligant large family iv
daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin’ to make up
fortunes for the whole of them—an’ there wasn’t a conthrivance iv any
soart or discription for makin’ money out iv the farm but he was up to.
Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world, he always
kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultry; an’ he was out iv all
raison partial to geese—an’ small blame to him for that same—for twiste
a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand—an’ get a fine price for
the feathers, and plenty of rale sizable eggs—an’ when they are too ould
to lay any more, you can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for
gozlings, d’ye see,—let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is
out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a
wondherful likin’ to Terence, an’ divil a place he could go serenadin’
about the farm, or lookin’ afther the men, but the gandher id be at his
heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, and lookin’ up in his face just
like any other Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen,—
Terence Mooney an’ the gandher wor so great. An’ at last the bird was so
engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an’
kept it from that time out, for love an’ affection—just all as one like one
iv his childhren. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an’ the
neighbours bigin’d to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher;
an’ some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a
fairy. Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’,
and you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an’
from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself,
until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in
Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the iligant hand at the business, and divil a
sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An’ moreover he
was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man’s father that was. So
without more about it, he was sint for; an’ sure enough the divil a long he
was about it, for he kem back that very evenin’ along wid the boy that
was sint for him; an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuck his supper, an’
was done talkin’ for a while, he bigined of coorse to look into the
gandher. Well, he turned it this away an’ that away, to the right, and to
the left, an’ straight-ways an’ upside down, an’ when he was tired
handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney—
“Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird into the next room,”
says he, “an’ put a pettycoat,” says he, “or any other convaynience round
his head,” says he.
“An’ why so?” says Terence.
“Becase,” says Jer, says he.
“Becase what?” says Terence.
“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done—you’ll never be asy agin,” says
he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” says he; “so ax no more questions,
but do my biddin’,’ says he.
“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.
An’ wid that he tuck the ould gandher, and giv’ it to one iv the
gossoons.
“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” says he.
Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, “Do you
know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?”
“Divil a taste,” says Terence.
“Well then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.
“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an
ould gandher be my father?” says he.
“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer; “it’s thrue what I tell you—it’s
your father’s wandhrin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally tuck pissession
iv the ould gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many ways, and I
wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,” says
he.
“Oh, blur an’ ages!” says Terence, “what the divil will I ever do at all
at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at
the laste,” says he.
“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer; “it was a sevare act surely,” says
he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only way to
prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,”
says he.
“Thrue for you,” says Terence; “but how the divil did you come to the
knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’ in the ould gandher?”
says he.
“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not undherstand me,” says he,
“without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no
questions,” says he, “an’ I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this
much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if I don’t
make him spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave to call
me a fool,” says he.
“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the business,” says he; “an’
oh! blur an’ ages, is it not a quare thing,” says he, “for a dacent,
respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape
iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and oh, murdher, murdher! isn’t it often I
plucked him,” says he; “an’ tundher an’ ouns, might not I have ate him,”
says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your
prisince, an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.
Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quiet an’
asy—“Terence,” says he, “don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,” says he, “for I
have a plan composed that ’ill make him spake out,” says he, “an’ tell
what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind an’ don’t be
comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say agin anything I tell you,” says he,
“but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how that
we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,” says he; “an’ if
he don’t spake tonight,” says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,”
says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” says
he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aiting,” says he, “along wid the
two gossoons,” says he; “an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he
doesn’t spake out before he’s half-way,” says he; “an’ mind,” says he,
“as soon as ever he says the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring
him off to Father Crotty,” says he, “an’ if his raverince doesn’t make him
ratire,” says he, “like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,” says
he, “into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory, there’s no vartue in
my charums,” says he.
Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they
all bigined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for roastin’
in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice
the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftinant;
an’ Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poulthry, “an’
to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’
the poor ould gandher ’ill get in this world,” says he. Well, as the night
was getting late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ downhearted
in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin’ to happen. An’ as
soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some
iligant potteen, an’ himself an’ Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more
anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan
finished a quart betune them: it wasn’t an imparial though, an’ more’s
the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but divil a much
matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone
what it does, sinst Father Mathew—the Lord purloin his raverince—
bigin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to
deginerate Ireland. An’ begorra, I have the medle myself; an’ its proud I
am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty
dhry. Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well
stop, “for enough is as good as a faste,” says he, “an’ I pity the
vagabond,” says he, “that is not able to conthroul his licquor,” says he,
“an’ to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,” says he, an’ wid that he
wished Jer Garvan a good night, an’ walked out iv the room. But he wint
out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an’ not rightly
knowin’ whether he was standin’ on his head or his heels, or both iv
them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed, where did he thrun
himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled out ready
for the gandher in the mornin’; an’ sure enough he sunk down soft an’
complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid the turnin’ an’ roulin’
about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug as a
lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’. So wid the first light, up gets
the two boys that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary;
an’ they cotched the ould gandher, an’ put him in the hamper and
clapped a good wisp iv hay on the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong
wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv
any harum, an’ put the hamper up on the car, wontherin’ all the while
what in the world was makin’ the ould bird so surprisin’ heavy. Well,
they wint along quiet an’ asy towards Tipperary, wishin’ every minute
that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with
them, for they didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the
bewitched gandher, an’ small blame to them for that same. But, although
they wor shakin’ in their shkins in dhread iv the ould bird biginin’ to
convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one another, but kep
singin’ and whistlin’, like mad, to keep the dhread out iv their hearts.
Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half-an-hour, they kem to
the bad bit close by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one divil iv a rut three
feet deep at the laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’
through it, that it wakened Terence within the basket.
“Oh!” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what the divil are
ye doin’ wid me?”
“Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the boy that was next to
the car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a musharoon; “did ye hear anything
quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.
“No, nor you,” says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself; “it’s the ould
gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,” says he.
“Where the divil have ye put me into?” says Terence inside; “let me
out, or I’ll be smothered this minute,” says he.
“There’s no use in purtendin’,” says the boy; “the gandher’s spakin’,
glory be to God!” says he.
“Let me out, you murdherers,” says Terence.
“In the name iv all the holy saints,” says Thady, “hould yer tongue,
you unnatheral gandher,” says he.
“Who’s that, that dar’ to call me nicknames?” says Terence inside,
roaring wid the fair passion; “let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,”
says he, “or by this crass I’ll stretch ye,” says he.
“In the name iv heaven,” says Thady, “who the divil are ye?”
“Who the divil would I be but Terence Mooney,” says he. “It’s myself
that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,” says he; “let me out, or by the
holy I’ll get out in spite iv yez,” says he, “an’ be jabers I’ll wallop yez in
arnest,” says he.
“It’s ould Terence, sure enough,” says Thady; “isn’t it cute the fairy
docthor found him out?” says he.
“I’m on the pint iv snuffication,” says Terence; “let me out I tell you,
an’ wait till I get at ye,” says he, “for begorra, the divil a bone in your
body but I’ll powdher,” says he; an’ wid that he bigined kickin’ and
flingin’ inside in the hamper, and dhrivin’ his legs agin the sides iv it,
that it was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces. Well, as soon as the
boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he
could peg towards the priest’s house, through the ruts, an’ over the
stones; an’ you’d see the hamper fairly flyin’ three feet up in the air with
the joultin’, glory be to God; so it was small wondher, by the time they
got to his raverince’s door, the breath was fairly knocked out iv poor
Terence; so that he was lyin’ speechless in the bottom iv the hamper.
Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up an’ they tould him all that
happened, an’ how they put the gandher into the hamper, an’ how he
bigined to spake, an’ how he confissed that he was ould Terence
Mooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the
sperit for good an’ all. So says his raverince, says he—
“I’ll take my book,” says he, “an’ I’ll read some rale sthrong holy bits
out iv it,” says he, “an’ do you get a rope and put it round the hamper,”
says he, “an’ let it swing over the runnin’ wather at the bridge,” says he,
“an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the sperit come out iv it,” says he.
Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an’ tuck his book in undher his
arum, an’ the boys follied his raverince, ladin’ the horse down to the
bridge, an’ divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no
use spakin’, an’ he was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him
to another gallop an’ finish him intirely. Well, as soon as they war all
come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with them, an’ med it
fast to the top iv the hamper an’ swung it fairly over the bridge; lettin’ it
hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; an’ his raverince rode
down to the bank iv the river, close by, an’ bigined to read mighty loud
and bould intirely. An’ when he was goin’ on about five minutes, all at
onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an’ down wint Terence, falling
splash dash into the water, an’ the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they
both went to the bottom wid a souse you’d hear half-a-mile off; an’
before they had time to rise agin, his raverince, wid the fair
astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an’ before he knew
where he was, in he went, horse and all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the
bottom. Up they all kem agin together, gaspin’ an’ puffin’, an’ off down
wid the current wid them, like shot in undher the arch iv the bridge, till
they kem to the shallow wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an’
the priest and Terence kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half
dhrounded; an’ his raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin’ he
got, and wid the sight iv the sperit as he consaved, that he wasn’t the
better iv it for a month. An’ as soon as Terence could spake, he said he’d
have the life iv the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him
his will; an’ as soon as he was got quiter they all endayvoured to explain
it, but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an’ his
wife said the same to shilter him from the suspicion ov having the dhrop
taken. An’ his raverince said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if he cotched
any one laughin’ at the accident, he’d lay the horsewhip across their
shouldhers; an’ Terence grew fonder an’ fonder iv the gandher every day,
until at last he died in a wondherful ould age, lavin’ the gandher afther
him an’ a large family iv childher.
Joseph Sheridan Lefanu (1814–1873).
 TABLE-TALK.
If the age of women were known by their teeth, they would not be so
fond of showing them.

What is an Irishman but a mere machine for converting potatoes into

human nature?

The smiles of a pretty woman are glimpses of Paradise.

Military men never blush; it is not in the articles of war.

We look with pleasure even on our shadows.

It is particularly inconvenient to have a long nose—especially if you

are in company with Irishmen after dinner.

Weak-minded men are obstinate; those of a robust intellect are firm.

 Bear-baiting has gone down very much of late. The best exhibitions
of that manly and rational amusement take place nightly in the House of
Commons.

When you are invited to a drinking-party you do not treat your host
well if you do not eat at least six salt herrings before you sit down to his
table. I have never known this to fail in ensuring a pleasant evening.

Butchers and doctors are with great propriety excluded from being
jurymen.

Few men have the moral courage not to fight a duel.

It is a saying of the excellent Tom Brown, “No poet ever went to a

church when he had money to go to a tavern.” This may be looked on as
an indisputable axiom; there is no truer proposition in Euclid. Indeed, the
very name of poet is derived from potare—to drink; and it is not by mere
accident that the same word signifies Bacchus and a book.

The most ferocious monsters in existence are authors who insist on

reading their MSS to their friends and visitors.

A friend of mine, one of the wittiest and most learned men of the day,
once recommended a Frenchman, who expressed an anxiety to possess
the autographs of literary men, to cash their bills. “And, believe me,”
says he, “if you do, you will get the handwriting of the best of the tribe.”

Tailors call Adam and Eve the first founders of their noble art; they
have them depicted on their banners and escutcheons. But they would be
nearer the truth if they called the devil the first master-tailor; as only for
him a coat and breeches would be unnecessary and useless. This would
be giving the devil his due.

A very acute man used to say, “Tell me your second reason; I do not
want your first. The second is the true motive of your actions.”

Youth and old age seem to be mutual spies on each other—blind,

each, to its own imperfections, but extremely quick-sighted to those of
its opposite.

H M B .—Whenever you are in a hurry engage a

drunken cabman; he will drive you at double the speed of a sober one.
Also, be sure not to engage a cabman who owns the horse he drives; he
will spare his quadruped, and carry you at a funeral pace. Both these
maxims are as good as any in Rochefoucault.

Man is a twofold creature; one half he exhibits to the world, and the
other to himself.
Edward V. H. Kenealy, LL.D. (1819–1880).