Larry’s Apprenticeship: An Enniskerry story from 1872
With thanks to Úna Wogan, who found this in the County Observer and Monmouthshire Central Advertiser – a Welsh newspaper – from 21 Dec 1872. Úna says that she “found the index to the authors that contributed to the annual and “Larry’s Apprenticeship” was written by Isabella Banks or her pen name, Mrs G Linnaeus Banks. Although it’s a piece of fiction I’m wondering was she actually inspired by a servant called Margaret McCann. She must have had some knowledge of the village and surrounds and the Quinn/McCann names are very appropriate.”
Make a cup of tea and enjoy! Thank you Úna!
“Larry’s Apprenticeship”: An Irish Fairy Legend
AH, sure, an’ did I ever tell ye how the M’Canns came to be carpenters?’ This query was put by Margaret M’Cann (an old, valuable, faithful, and warm-hearted Irish servant of my mother’s) to myself and youngest brother, who were seated-myself on the kitchen fender, and he on a low stool–listening to her true stories of Banshees and Leprechauns, in both of which she was a stout believer. She had just told us of the wailing banshee she had herself seen and heard on the river bank, and of a leprechaun in his red cap and miniature suit of green; and she had borne with perfect good-humour our ridicule and banter over her credulity, when she put the sudden question,
“Did ye know, then, how the M’Canns came to be carpenters?” “I never knew they were carpenters” said I, with a light laugh. ‘”Why, Margaret, I thought all your family were farmers” cried Fred, with an assumption of prior information. ‘Them’s the Quins, Master Fred. They are all farmers to this blessed day; an’ the M’Canns were farmers too, an’ had a fine holdin’ amongst the Wicklow mountains, just a trifle beyan Enniskerry, till Larry M’Cann (my grandfather that was) met with an adventure amongst the Good People.’ Here Margaret, being a devout Catholic, crossed herself. ‘Good People! 0, I suppose you mean fairies,’ was my amendment. Sure, an’ I do: but we never speak of them but as the Good People. It’s unlucky.’ ‘0, that’s only in Ireland,’ suggested Fred, with a droll wink at me. In England, you may call them anything you like, and they won’t mind it one bit.’ ‘Are ye sure now, Master Fred?’ Certain. But, Margaret, what had the fairies to do with Larry M’Cann’s carpentering?’ Well, I’ll tell ye, of course as it wor towld to me, when I was a slip of a colleen no bigger than yez.’
And -Margaret settled herself on her chair with all the importance of an old story-teller. Ye must know that Larry was as fine an’ strapping a lad as ever stepped over the daisies. It was he that could handle a flail or a plough, or dig praties, or stack the hay in the haggard, And when he went to chapel on a Sunday in his best frieze coat, with the ends of his handkercher flying loose, an’ his caubeen cocked rakishly on one side, sure an’ weren’t all the girls in Enniskerry in love with his blue eyes and yellow hair, and weren’t half of them dying to have him for a bachelor? I presumed we listeners looked mystified, with the word bachelor so applied, for Margaret explained, that’s what you call a sweetheart, miss.’ But Larry, though not conceited, laughed with one girl, an joked with another; an’ whenever he went to Dublin, or Phoenix Park, or the Strawberry-beds, could take the floor with the best, and have the purtiest girl for a partner-an’ troth it’s he that could dance a jig- but he never thought of takin’ a partner for life, or of ofterin himself as a bachelor, till he met with Kitty Quin, an’ her black eyes made a hole in his heart at wanst. He was nigh six-an’-twenty when he met her. It was at a pattern at the Seven Churches of Glendalough, an’ sorra a bit could he mind his prayers for looking at her as she towld her beads so piously, without seem in to think of the bachelors or her own pretty face at all. Well, I heard grandfather say that, though he was as bowld and impident in his way with the lasses as any lad in Enniskerry, his knees fairly knocked together, an his heart went all in a flutter before he could bless himself, when Michael Quin tuk her by the hand an’ comin towards him, said, Here’s our Kitty come back from aunt Riley’s; an’ when Larry wor too dazed to speak, went on, Have yez got a drop in your eye. man that yez cannot see the colleen, or has Dublin made her so strange ye don’t know her again ? What Larry said he never remembered, but he felt as if lie hadn’t a bit of heart left, an’ his words tumbled over each other like stones rolled down hill. He knew he had blundered out somethin’ for Kitty’s cheeks went red as the roses on her gown. She put out her soft little hand with a smile that showed two rows of teeth as white an’ fresh as hailstones; and she said modestly as a nun, I’m glad to see any of my owld friends again, Misther M’Cann.” He had sense enough left, to take howld of the hand she offered: an’ sure he must have given it a hearty grip for the roses grew on her forehead to match her cheeks’ and she drew it back hastily. Larry, however, kept close to the brother an’ sister- an; when the prayers were over, an’ the people began to enjoy themselves, an’ the dudeens an’ the whiskey went round to warm the hearts an’ the toes, then Larry plucked up his courage an’ asked Kitty to take the floor with him. Now Kitty was either shy, or her Dublin manners made her too proud to dance at a pattern, so she made excuses. Michael, who had kissed the whiskey-jar very lovingly, would not have his friend said no “to; and so to keep Mike in a good humour, she consented to dance a jig with Larry. Sure, an’ it was then he must have won her heart; for they all went back to Enniskerry together, she let Larry put his arm around her waist, just to howld her on the car, because of the bad roads, an’ stale a kiss when he lifted her down at Farmer Quin’s garden gate. And from that out Larry followed Kitty like her sliadder. But Peter Quin farmed more than two hundred acres, all’ Larry’s father only he]d a hundred an’ twenty an’ that’s a good differ, Master Fred. Then Mike an’ Kitty work all the chitder Peter had, whilst Larry’s brothers- God be praised !—were as thick on the time as rabbits in a run: wherever ye turned yez might tumble over a pig or a gossoon. ° Troth, an’ it wasn’t’ long afore the neighbours began to call on Larry as Kitty’s bachelor, an’ one deceitful ould fellow, who had himself an eye to Kitty’s bit of money, gave Peter a hint that Larry was coortin’ the lass for the love of her fortune. Peter had a temper that was always on the simmer, an’ it boiled over at once.
By some ill-luck Larry showed his face at the Quin’s door before it had time to cool, so Peter treated him to a thrifle of his blackguard. “Div ye think Kitty, the elligant darlng, is for such a poor spalpeen as yez ?” he said, “She that’s been educated in Dublin, an’ liez book-larnin’, let alone manners, an’ a fortun’ to the fore. But it’s the fortun’ I’m thinking, yez lookin’ for wid one eye, an’ the girl wid the other, Misther Lawrence M’Cann,” he said, with a sneer an’ a turn up of his ugly nose. It’s well for yez, Mr. Pether Quin, that yez Kitty’s father, or, by jabers, an’ I’s showin’ yez the taste of this blackthorn I’d be,” said Larry on the instant, keeping his passion down with an effort. Yez may keep your dirty money, bad cess to them as put the black thought of me into yer heart, if ye’ll only put Kitty’s sweet little hand into mine wid a blessin’ ‘
“You may be sure, miss, as they did not whisper; an’ hearin’ a row, Mike ran from the barn into the slip of garden forenent the house to join in the fun. He was jist in time to hear his father repate his insult, an’ accusing Larry of wanting Kitty’s hundred pounds; an’ then Mike fired up, an’ took his friend’s part like a Trojan,’ And what’s a Trojan, Margaret ? asked Fred, demurely, with another sly blink at me. Whisht, Masther Fred, an’ don’t be after interruptin,’ or we’ll never get to the Good People at all,’ said Margaret, ignoring the question. Rightly admonished, Master Fred allowed the story to proceed. But Mike could not bring his father to reason, even though he offered him a draw of his pipe. More by token, he himself was unwilling to let his sister marry a man who had neither house nor furniture of his own. It’s not for the likes of her to lay her head under a father-in-law’s roof, an have her childer running over a floor that is not her own,” said Mike. I’d say nothin’ agin the match, Larry, if ye had but a farm or a house of yer own, or even the bits of things to make a house dacent for the lass.”
Larry went away with a very sore heart, miss, you may be sure, for he’d set his very sowl upon Kitty Quin. An’ sure an’ that was the black morning for Larry jumpin’ a corner of a quickset hedge on his way home, who should he come across but Kitty, with a basket of ripe strawberries on her arm, an’ she lookin’ more temptin’ than the fruit. Kitty had a tender drop in her heart, and seeing that he was sad, she set herself to discover what it was about; and didn’t she regret her curiosity in another minit ? for he poured out all his love and his sorrow like a great gushin stream, and held her hand as if he was drowni’n, an’ only that could keep him from sinking quite. Taken by surprise, Kitty dropped her basket, an’ would have fainted outright, had not Larry put out his arm an’ caught her, and that brought her to her seven senses. Poor Larry mistook her faintness for a sign of her affection, an’ in his joy kissed her sweet lips over an’ over again. But Kitty soon told him the differ. She said she had only fainted from the heat. She was sorry he had mistaken her friendship for a warmer feeling; but though she was ashamed her father should have suspected him of a mercenary motive, she could not encourage his hopes. She should never marry without her father s consent; an’ besides, her bringing-up had made her unfit for a farmer’s wife, an’ so she had determined—yes, determined was the word-never to marry any man who had not a good trade in his hands that would be a livin’ either in country or town. Every word that Kitty said fell like ice on Larry’s hot heart, an’ he reeled home as if he had had lashins of whisky; an’ when he got there, he took the whisky to drown his sorrow till he wor drunk in arnest.
There was nobody to tell him of the battle in Kitty’s breast between love and pride nor how she had crept into the house by the back way, an’ shut herself up, all alone, in her room, to shed tears like a February cloud over the very mischief she had done, and the pain in her own breast. Sure, all the fun an’ the frolic in Larry’s nature was curtailed that black mornin’. He went about the farm without a smile on his lip or a sunbeam in his eye, an’ his mother would have it the boy was bewitched. Even Father Maguire noticed his altered looks, an’ his careless dress when he went to mass on the Sundays, and the good priest did his best to set matters straight’ but all to no use, miss. Peter Quinn was sorry when his temper was off, but —small blame to him he still thought she might do better than go to the M’Cann’ to be under a mother-in- law, an’ work like a slave for all Larry’s younger brothers.
As for Kitty, before the feel of Larry’s kiss had gone from her lips the colleen was angry that he had taken her at her word; but she fed her courage with pride, and put a calm face on, though her heart was all in a tempest of throuble. An’ sure, miss, there’s many and many a girl does that, although you are too young to know it, and I hope never will.’ Here Margaret looked at me soberly, as if giving a leaf out of the book of her own experience.
One fine June morning, when the roses were in full dress, an’ the air had the smell of flowers an’ new- mown hay, Larry went to St. Patrick’s Market to sell a cow that had gone dry. Three weeks before, an’ that same Larry would have sung or whistled every foot of the road, barrin’ he met a traveller and stopped to give him the time o’ day. or exchange a joke. But now he kept his hands in his pockets, his chin hung on his chest, an’ his mouth was as close as a miser’s purse. He had a sup of whiskey before he left home, to keep his heart up, but; fur all that he looked as melancholy as the cow he wor drivin’. He had barely got a couple of miles beyant Peter Quin’s farm, which lay in his way to Dublin, when he heard a thin weak voice callin’ to him, like the wind through a keyhole.
The top o’ the mornin’ to you, Larry The same to you, misther, answered Larry, slowly lifting his eyes, an’ then rubbin’ them to clear the cob- webs away; for straight across the road was a gate where never a gate had been before, an’ sittin’ cross- legged on the topmost bar was the queerest little old man Larry had ever seen. He was no bigger than a two-year child, but his face was as wizen an’ wrinkled as if he was four hundred. He was dressed in an old-fashioned coat an’ breeches as green as the grass, had shining buckles in his shoes, and on his head a bright red cap. By all them tokens Larry knew that the little old man was a leprechaun, an’ his mouth began to wather for some of the gold he knew the old gintleman must have hid in the ground some- where about, an’ his heart began to thump. But Larry was not the boy to be afraid, so he put a bould face on when the leprechaun, with his head cocked on one side and a knowing twinkle in his eye, said to him, That’s a fine baste yez drivin’, Larry!” Troth, yer honour, an’ ye may say that same,” replied Larry, doffin his caubeen an’ scrapin’ his foot, for he thought it best to be civil. An’ so your drivin’ the cow to market because she’s lost her milk, an ye mane to askin’ pound ten for her said the leprechaun with a comical chuckle. Begod, an’ I am!” exclaimed Larry, opening his eyes and slapping his thigh in amazement, an’ sure, it’s the knowin’ old gintleman yer honour is ” Thrue for you,” said the leprechaun; “an’ maybe I know, besides, that Larry M’Cann’s goin’ to the bad for love of the purtiest girl in Wicklow. But pluck up a spirit, Larry, don’t be cast down. It’s I that owe Peter Quinn a grudge this many a long day, for his meaness in cheatin’ the fairies of their due. Never a fairies’ drop’ (milk left as a propitiatory offering to the Good People) is to be found in Peter’s cow-house or dairy; and never a turf or a pratie or a cast-off coat has he for a poor shivering begger or omadhaun’ (idiot), ‘bad cess to him An’ so, Larry, I mean to befriend yez for it’s yez thet have the warm heart and open hand’ an’ we’ll back thim against the cowld heart ,.nd the tight fist any day an’ the leprechaun plucked off his red cap and swung it over his head, as if in high glee.
Larry, with another scrape of his foot, thanked the green-coated old gentleman, an’ asked him if he meant to show him where to find a pot of goold. Ay, an’ that I do; but, Larry,” an’ here he looked slyer than ever, the fortun’s in your own right hand, man, an’ it’s I that meane to teache ye to find it there.” Larry opened his great brown hand, an’ turned it over, an’ looked in the broad palm. Divil a bit I see of a fortin’ there,” says he. Whisht says the leprechaun. Go on wid yer beast, an’ when ye meet a man wid his breeches knees untied, an’ his coat-tails down to his heels, an’ a wisp of straw in his shoes to keep his toes warm where they peep out of his stockin’s, an’ a caubeen witout a brim, thin ye’ll know the man that’ll bid for yer cow, an’ give ye nine goolden guineas for her, not dirty notes. Nine guineas begod, an’ that’s more than-” Larry stopped short. The leprechaun was gone, an’ the gate was gone, an’ the poor cow walked on as if she had never been stayed.
“Perhaps she never had,’ suggested Fred ‘Now, Masther Fred,’ said Margaret ”if ye interrupt me agin wid yer roguish doubts, I shall stop, an ye’ll never hear how it all ended.’ Go on, Margaret,’ urged I, and Margaret obeyed.
– 0 – 0 – 0 –
LARRY’S surprise an’ the leprechaun’s promises drove the thoughts of Kitty out of his head, an’ he stepped toward Dublin with something of his ould lightsomeness; when just as he crossed the canal bridge lie saw Kitty Quin standin’ on her aunt Riley’s doorstep in Clanbrassil street, dressed as elligantlv as a lady, an’ lookin’ as grand an’ as proud as a queen. Well, Kitty’s face went crimson, an’ Larry’s heart gave a great leap; but she just made him a stiff kind of curtsey, an the door bein’ opened, went in without a word. Thim’s Dublin manners, I suppose,” thought Larrv, his heart aching worse than ever; while Kitty, watchin him from behind the window- blind as tar as she could see, felt the tears rowl over her burnin’ cheeks, an’ then wiped them off angrily, as if ashamed of her natural feelin’s an’ blamed herself for being silly.
Larry hardly knew how he got to the market, but sure enough there he met that same identical man the leprechaun had towld him of. An’ more, by token he made Larry a bid for the cow. He bid eight pound ten, but Larry, heartened beforehand, stuck out tor nine guineas; and sure he took Larry into a public-house that stood convanient, and took out of his breeches-pocket an ow!d rag tied round wid string to sarve as a purse, and there an’ thin counted down the nine goolden guineas. Then he asked Larry to have a dhrop an’ a dhraw” to seal the bargain. Lairy s customer called for the whisky, an’ offered Larry his own pipe. So the boy had both the dhrop an the dhraw, an’ then they had another dhrop an’ a dhraw; an Larry remembered no more till he found himself lyin on the grass, wid the stars shining out in honour of Midsummer-eve, an’ a rushin’ in his ears as of a great sea. ‘Then he heard a rustle as of leaves, an’ a mighty wbisperin, an lifted himself on his elbow to look about hiin, and there he saw hundreds of little people no more than a span high, dressed in all sorts of queer out- landish fashions. All the little men had coats of green velvet, and leaves of green shamrock in their hands; whilst the ladies had scarves of green gauze as fine as cobwebs, an shamrock was wreathed round their heads, which shone like goold in the moonlight. “They were all in commotion, running hither an thither, howlding long discourses, and appeared to be in some sort of trouble or difficulty.
Presently he saw in their midst the loveliest little creature the light of his eyes ever flashed on. She was sitting in a silver-lily of a car, and drawn by seven-and- twenty grasshoppers, three abreast. She had a wand in her hand, on which a crystal dew-drop twinkled like a star, an Larry knew at wanst that they were all fairies, an she was their queen. Then, miss, as they drew nigher to him, Larry heard that one of the owd fairies lay dead, an that they wanted a coffin for the berrin. But not a coffin could they get, for fairy coffins must be made by mortals, or the dead fairies never lie at rest. An that was what the council an the confusion was about. Soon Larry heard the fairy queen say in a voice for all the world like the chirp of a cricket, -‘But who shall make thee coffin?” All of a sudden at least fifty’ of the Good People laid howld of him, and cried out like so many bees humming, Here’s Larry M’Cann, here’s Larry M’Cann it’s he will make the coffin.” But he never handled a saw or a plane in his life; he cannot make a pig-trough, an how will he finish a coffin fit for an elf ? said one of the Good People. Sure, thin, an it’s we that must teache him,” answered another.
With that the fairy queen touched him on the fore- head, as lightly as if a leaf had dropped there, with her shining wand, an it flashed before his eyes till they seemed to flash fire; an before he could cry out, or ask a saint to purtect him, he felt himself goin down, down, down, down into the very earth itself; an it’s lost he thought be was for evermore. Troth was Dublin Castle’s but a mud cabin in comparison with the palace Larry was in when he came to his senses. The walls were brighter than sunshine or rainbows, an goold, an silver, an prechus jewels were as plentiful as praties. There were gardens with trees all flowers, the likes of which were never seen in all Ireland an the birds were all crimson an green an lylack, and sang sweeter than thrush or nightingale. He seemed to see all this at once, and many a curious thing beside, which I disremember, and amongst it all the Good People were as busy as bees in a hive. Almost the first thing he saw was the dead-fairy lying on a bed of Indian moss, under a delicate silken quilt, with a tiny wreath of lilies of the valley on his head, and forget-me-nots all about him. There was a fine bird of paradise singing over him so soft an sweet, it charmed the very sowl of Larry. There were fairies watchin the corpse, but every wan of them was sobbin or cryin, an sure that same bothered him. It was not long he was left to stare about him. One of the Good People put an inch rule into his band an set him to measure the corpse, an sure that same came as natural to him as hoeing the cabbages. He was taken to a fine fairy workshop, where everything was as neat an orderly as if it had just been cleaned. There was piles of wood of all sorts, an one owld brownie told Larry their names, and there was lots of bright tools, an another wee owld fellow towld him their names; and then two or three showed him how to use them.
Then they gave him the wood. an the tools, an he made an eligant little coffin as aisily as if he had been at the trade all his life. The dead corpse was lifted in by the mourners as never mourned, an Larry fastened down the lid as cleverly as any undertaker in Leinster. As the funeral percession, with the coffin in the midst, moved away to the fairies’ cemetry, the owld brownie who first took notice of Larry said, “very nately put together, Larry M’Cann; sure, an ye’re a credit to your teachers. Take your wages, man, an go.” Larry put out his hand and stooped for the glitterin purse that wor held out to him, an—whisht! He was lyin on his back, with his curly head on a hard stone, undher a big tree, wid the morning sun shinin full in his face, Powerscourt falls tumbling in foam down the great high rocks, that frowned above him, leapin over big bowlders, an rushin away with a roar under a little wooden bridge just beyant.
Larry rubbed his eyes, sat up, an rubbed them again, and sure the more he looked about him, the more he was bothered. “Begorra, an ‘this is a quare thrick to be plavin’ a man,” says he, as he scrambled on his feet, wid his bones as stiff an sore as if he had been beaten with a shillaly. “Is it myself I am, or somebody else? an whare have I been ? an’ by the powers, how did I come here at all, at ll ? Is it drunk, or dreaming, or asleep I am at this blessed minit? Be jabers, the Good People-” Larry stopped, an crossed himself, and bethought of his wages, and all that was in his grip was dead leaves. ‘But he gave a great jump, an cried out, “Plane laves, begad; an it wur fairy goold, an that never turns to laves, An it’s a plane tree I’m lyin undher! Musha, but that’s a rare joke! In another minute his heart sank, and ‘he thremb’ed with fear lest he had been paid for the cow in fairy goold too, an should find only yellow leaves in his pocket.
But, faith, the nine bright goolden guineas-not dirty one-pound notes-were solid and safe. The sun was dancin brightly on the waters, as Larry hastened along the narrow footpath by the stream, an turnin sharp off before he reached the foaming waters of the Dargle, mounted the crooked an dangerous way up the steep banks to the high road, wondering why the Good People couldn’t have laid him down under a road side hedge, or in a green field, instead of carrying him out of his way intirely to Powerscourt falls. It was all a mystery an a dream to him, an as he went. “All night’ cried the old M’Cann, as the broth of a boy put his bright curly head in at the door. All night, father, all night, did ye say cried Larry, bewildered; for ye see, Master Fred, he thought he had been a week with the Good People. “Yes all night; for isn’t the sun shinin on this blessed Midsummer-day, ye spalpeen? Is it drunk ye are before the dew is off the daises ? Ah, Larry, Larry me lad, it’s the wrong way yez going since Kitty Quin showed ye the cowld shoulder; bad cess to the whole lot of them But where’s the price of the baste ? If ye were drunk, sure ye’d sins a left to take care of that?”
Ay, an sure when he found be had not been more than a night with the fairies, he had sense enough left to keep his own secret. His mother said a mighty change had come over Larry, but not a guess had she where it came from. He put his potheen aside when it came his way, an took to the farm so kindly; he went about his work whistling, and did as much in one day as he had ever done in two. Then he went an around to Dublin with the car, an brought back a lot of carpenters tools, an some -dale boards. He put them in an old shed that was tumbling down, unknownst to any one but his brother Pat. Then he put a door on the pigsty, to keep the pigs out of the house, and persuaded his father to have the holes in the mud floor of the kitchen filled up; an conthrived somehow to make the farm dacent an comfortable, with odd bits of improvement here an there. Amongst it all, he an Pat got the crooked walls of the shed to stand upright, and mended the thatch, an put the door again on its two hinges, an put a lock on the door, widout a word to father or mother. An then sure, he conthrived to put up some sort of a carpenter’s bench, after the patthern in the fairies’ workshop. More wood was got, an truth, one mornin, to her surprise, Mrs. M’Cann found a new dale table, an a dresser, an’ an easy chair in her kitchen, the like of which wasn’t to be found in all Enniskerry. Sure an it’s idigant, it’s fairy work said all the neighbours. True for yon, it is the fairies’ work,” said Larry, with a sly wink at Pat; an Pat, knowin what he had seen, an nothin of the fairies, burst into a loud laugh, an let out that Larry was the workman. No neighbour was more astonished than Larry’s own father and mother. They knew nothin of Larry’s friend the leprechaun, nor his fairy teachers; they said the blessed Saint Joseph must have put the knowledge in his head, an called the boy a rale born genius. • Other farmers’ wives envied Mrs. M’Cann her fine dresser, on which a. set of new wooden patters and bickers were ranged, with here an there a bright-coloured crock for show; an they came beggin’ of Larry to make the copy of it for them.
So, sure, an it came about that soon Larry had so much of his new work he was forced to teach two of his brothers the trade, an build a proper workshop; and Farmer M’Cann had to set the gossoons to work on the farm instead of lounging about an propping up door-posts all the day. ‘But never a bit did Larry go near Kitty all this time, though many a longing look did he cast that way when he passed Peter Quin’s gate. If they met at mass, he just gave her the time o day, as any other friend might do; but though his very heart was bursting with love, he kept it, like his other secrets, to himself.
As for Kitty, there were plenty of bachelors after her, either for herself or her fortun’ but she never got the feel of Larry’s kisses off her lips, an cared more for a glance of his blue eye than for all the bachelors in Wicklow: Kitty, so the story ends, was married to Larry, after she had been punished for her pride a short time by his distant conduct to her, and all ended happily. Margaret, the narrator of the tale, was as firm a believer in fairies to her dying day as when she told the story of Larry’s Apprenticeship, and the fortune he found in his own right hand.—
Banks, Isabella [Mrs G Linnaeus Banks]. ‘Larry’s Apprenticeship.’ A (1872): 48-57.)