Andrew Coffey

My grandfather, Andrew Coffey, was known to the whole barony as a quiet, decent man. And if the whole barony knew him, he knew the whole barony, every inch, hill and dale, bog and pasture, field and covert. Fancy his surprise one evening, when he found himself in a part of the demesne he couldn’t recognise a bit. He and his good horse were always stumbling up against some tree or stumbling down into some bog-hole that by rights didn’t ought to be there. On the top of all this the rain came pelting down wherever there was a clearing, and the cold March wind tore through the trees. Glad he was then when he saw a light in the distance, and drawing near found a cabin, though for the life of him he couldn’t think how it came there. However, in he walked, after tying up his horse, and right welcome was the brushwood fire blazing on the hearth. And there stood a chair right and tight, that seemed to say, “Come, sit down in me.” There wasn’t a soul else in the room. Well, he did sit, and got a little warm and cheered after his drenching. But all the while he was wondering and wondering.

“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!”

Good heavens! who was calling him, and not a soul in sight? Look around as he might, indoors and out, he could find no creature with two legs or four, for his horse was gone.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! tell me a story.”

It was louder this time, and it was nearer. And then what a thing to ask for! It was bad enough not to be let sit by the fire and dry oneself, without being bothered for a story.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!! Tell me a story, or it’ll be the worse for you.”

My poor grandfather was so dumbfounded that he could only stand and stare.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! I told you it’d be the worse for you.”

And with that, out there bounced, from a cupboard that Andrew Coffey had never noticed before, _a man_. And the man was in a towering rage. But it wasn’t that. And he carried as fine a blackthorn as you’d wish to crack a man’s head with. But it wasn’t that either. But when my grandfather clapped eyes on him, he knew him for Patrick Rooney, and all the world knew _he’d_ gone overboard, fishing one night long years before.

Andrew Coffey would neither stop nor stay, but he took to his heels and was out of the house as hard as he could. He ran and he ran taking little thought of what was before till at last he ran up against a big tree. And then he sat down to rest.

He hadn’t sat for a moment when he heard voices.

“It’s heavy he is, the vagabond.” “Steady now, we’ll rest when we get under the big tree yonder.” Now that happened to be the tree under which Andrew Coffey was sitting. At least he thought so, for seeing a branch handy he swung himself up by it and was soon snugly hidden away. Better see than be seen, thought he.

The rain had stopped and the wind fallen. The night was blacker than ever, but Andrew Coffey could see four men, and they were carrying between them a long box. Under the tree they came, set the box down, opened it, and who should they bring out but–Patrick Rooney. Never a word did he say, and he looked as pale as old snow.

Well, one gathered brushwood, and another took out tinder and flint, and soon they had a big fire roaring, and my grandfather could see Patrick plainly enough. If he had kept still before, he kept stiller now. Soon they had four poles up and a pole across, right over the fire, for all the world like a spit, and on to the pole they slung Patrick Rooney.

“He’ll do well enough,” said one; “but who’s to mind him whilst we’re away, who’ll turn the fire, who’ll see that he doesn’t burn?”

With that Patrick opened his lips: “Andrew Coffey,” said he.

“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!”

“I’m much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said Andrew Coffey, “but indeed I know nothing about the business.”

“You’d better come down, Andrew Coffey,” said Patrick.

It was the second time he spoke, and Andrew Coffey decided he would come down. The four men went off and he was left all alone with Patrick.

Then he sat and he kept the fire even, and he kept the spit turning, and all the while Patrick looked at him.

Poor Andrew Coffey couldn’t make it all out at all, at all, and he stared at Patrick and at the fire, and he thought of the little house in the wood, till he felt quite dazed.

“Ah, but it’s burning me ye are!” says Patrick, very short and sharp.

“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” said my grandfather “but might I ask you a question?”

“If you want a crooked answer,” said Patrick; “turn away or it’ll be the worse for you.”

But my grandfather couldn’t get it out of his head; hadn’t everybody, far and near, said Patrick had fallen overboard. There was enough to think about, and my grandfather did think.

Moral

Andrew’s generosity to the poor stranger brings unexpected blessings to his family. His willingness to share despite having little shows that kindness and trust in others often return greater rewards than selfishness.

Historical & Cultural Context

Celtic folk tales emerge from the Gaelic, Welsh and Breton storytelling traditions, weaving fairy lore, saints and heroes (like Fionn mac Cumhaill and Cuchulain) with the thin veil between the mortal world and the Otherworld.

Andrew Coffey’s tale comes from the oral tradition of Irish storytelling, collected by D.W. and preserved in Celtic folklore records. It exemplifies the “grateful guest” or “test of hospitality” motif found across Indo-European narratives, particularly in Celtic and Arthurian traditions. The story echoes themes in the Mabinogion where visitors reveal themselves as magical beings. Such tales reinforce the cultural value of hospitality central to Gaelic society.

Reflection & Discussion

1. What made Andrew trust a stranger enough to help him?
2. When have you seen kindness come back to help someone?
3. What if Andrew had turned the stranger away instead?

Did You Know?

• Irish fairy tales feature the Tuatha Dé Danann, a mythical race of supernatural beings said to have inhabited Ireland before the Celts.
• The leprechaun, one of Ireland’s most famous fairy creatures, originally appeared as a water sprite in ancient Celtic folklore.
• Celtic storytellers, known as ‘seanchaí,’ were among the most respected members of Irish society for centuries.

What This Tale Teaches Us Today

Old stories keep their power because their lessons never stop being useful. Here is how this one still applies:

• Stories that have survived for centuries have done so because their lessons still work.
• Shared stories are one of the strongest bonds within any community – families, cultures, or whole nations.
• Traditional stories remind us that wisdom belongs to many cultures. No single tradition holds all the answers.

Why This Story Still Matters

Andrew Coffey joins a vast global library of folk tales that human beings have been telling one another for thousands of years. Every culture has produced its own stories, but the deepest themes – courage, kindness, cleverness, loyalty, the cost of greed – appear again and again in different clothes. Modern readers who spend time with folk tales inherit something precious: a sense that people have always wrestled with the same basic questions, and that good stories can still help us find good answers. That is why these tales persist. Each one is a small tool for living, handed down quietly through generations.

Cultural Context and Continuing Influence

Folk tales like this one survived for hundreds of years through oral storytelling before any scholar thought to write them down. Grandparents told them to grandchildren, travelers traded them along roads and rivers, and mothers repeated them to babies who would one day repeat them to their own children. Each small retelling sharpened the story, discarded unnecessary parts, and polished the essential lesson. That long process of refinement is why a good folk tale feels so weighty – it has been shaped by thousands of listeners across generations, each contributing something small to the story we read today.

Modern readers sometimes wonder whether folk tales are still relevant in an age of apps and smartphones. The answer is yes, perhaps more than ever. The technology changes, but the underlying questions – about kindness, courage, loyalty, greed, family, fear, love – do not. These are the same questions that children asked around a fire in ancient India, around a hearth in medieval Ireland, around a campfire in 19th-century Korea. And they are the same questions children ask their parents today, just phrased differently. That is why a family that reads folk tales together is doing real cultural and emotional work, not simply entertaining itself.

Reading Folk Tales With Children

Reading folk tales aloud to children is one of the oldest and most effective forms of moral education. Unlike a lecture or a rule, a story slides past a child’s natural resistance and plants its lesson in the imagination, where it quietly grows. Years later, when the child meets a real situation that resembles the story – a bully at school, a dishonest coworker, a moment of temptation – the old tale rises to the surface of memory and offers guidance. That is why parents and teachers across every culture have trusted stories to do the work of raising good humans, long before formal schools or textbooks existed.

When reading this story with a young listener, try pausing at key moments and asking what the child thinks will happen next. Let them guess, even if they are wrong. That small act of prediction turns a passive listener into an active thinker. After the story ends, a simple open question – “What would you have done?” or “Who do you think was the smartest character?” – invites the child to connect the tale to their own life. Those conversations are where real learning happens, not during the reading itself but in the quiet moments that follow.

Older children and teenagers sometimes think they have outgrown folk tales. In reality, the best tales only deepen with age. A ten-year-old hears the surface plot; a fifteen-year-old notices the irony; a twenty-year-old sees the economic and political pressures on the characters; a forty-year-old understands the parents in the story for the first time. A good folk tale is a gift that keeps unfolding for decades. Families who read and reread the same stories across the years discover this naturally, and pass the discovery down.