“There would be white-robed Druids,” O’Neill said; “and the King’s bards or poets would be about him. The bard was a very important person and a high functionary, with wide powers. In a sense he was the war-correspondent of his day: he never fought, but he was always present at a battle, and very much in it, noting the heroic deeds of the warriors, and afterwards recording them in his songs. Poetry in those days was a most business-like and practical thing, for everything of any importance was written in verse, such as the laws, the genealogies of the clans, and their history. The poet held an exalted position, and was educated for it from his boyhood by a course of careful study: and the chief poet ranked next to the king, and went about with almost as fine a retinue. They were the professors of their day, and kept schools for training lads for their order. A man had to be very careful not to offend one, or he would write a satire against the culprit; and these satires were dreaded extremely, since they were believed to cause disaster and desolation to fall not only on a man but on his whole family. Nowadays, editors are said to keep special wastepaper baskets for dealing with poets, but it wouldn’t have done in the ould ancient times—the post of an editor would have been too unhealthy!” “I suppose it is through them that the old stories have come down,” Jim said. “Of course. They had to write the verse-tales, and they had to tell them, too; they were obliged to learn and teach three hundred and fifty kinds of versification, and an Ollave, or chief poet, could recite at any moment any of three hundred and fifty stories. They did a lot of harm, because they abused their power; and at last, in the sixth century, were nearly banished from Ireland altogether. Columcille saved them from that fate, but they were made much less important. However, the poets that you are looking at with your mind’s eye, Norah, were ages before that, and you can imagine them as gorgeous and as haughty as possible, and every one is very polite to them.” “I’m going to get off this stone and make room for the chief,” said Wally, solemnly, rising. “There’s the ghost of a poet, glaring at me, and he’s going to burst into a satire.” He subsided on the grass beside Norah. “Go on, please.”