As in most callings there were two or three classes of pedlars.  The King of Pedlars was the man who, with a tidy balance at the bank, and an account with some great wholesale drapery house, usually drove a van with a horse along the principal roads of the country and disdained to call on any person lower than the rank of strong farmer.  As a rule he was loud, pushing and loquacious, a good salesman and a decent fellow all round. 

Then came the pedlar who drove a mule or donkey-cart and who also frequented fairs where his gaudily-decked booth containing coloured, cotton handkerchiefs, cheap muslin and articles of small ware, was a prominent feature.  He was more or less looked down on by the big man who drove his horse; but the man with the mule had in turn a corresponding contempt for the poorer brother who, with his pack strapped over his shoulders, sought the favour of his customers on foot.  But the latter wayfarer had one advantage over his bigger brethren.  He could, and did penetrate further into isolated districts and so reap many small orders from clients who were not so much in touch with highways.   

And in truth this latter specimen of the tribe was the most interesting of the lot.  He was generally past middle-life with the healthy, hardy glow in his countenance that much living in the open air usually gives.  His face seemed so open and truthful that it was difficult to believe he could over-praise his goods or over-reach one in a bargain. 

But with all that our pedlar was a man with the shrewd eye to the main chance.  It was pleasant to see him approach the open door of the farm-house, and if the time was evening and he contemplated resting for the night, his greeting was doubly voluble and gushing:

Índeed ‘tis rale glad I am to see ye all again, ma’am; and how’s the childer, all of them?  And the man of the house?  ‘Tis younger yer getting every day, ma’am; and faith and troth if I met that eldest daughter of yours down the lane I’d be almost certain ‘twas yerself.  And sure she’s the dead moral of her mother;  but I’m afraid she’ll never have the fine heart of her, though. 

But what am I after saying?  Shure, there’s purty Peggy after listening to every word I’ve said!’

Then as he was cordially welcomed, he slowly unhitched his pack, producing in the meantime a small tin case which contained some cheap jewellery, and handing over a glittering brooch to the elder girl of the house: 

‘There now Miss Peggy; shurte ‘tis only fair I should make up for saying you’d never be as generous as your mother.  Sure you will so, please God, when you get the handling like her.  But don’t be in a hurry to make a match for her, ma’am.  Keep her with you as long as you can.’ 

Having thus propitiated both mother and daughter, he opened his pack and generally succeeded in making some small sales.  A remnant of stuff to make a ‘rocket’ for the youngest hope of the house, a flaming-coloured handkerchief for the man of the house, and maybe a few yards of ribbon for pretty Peggy usually changed hands.  The transaction over, a cordial invitation was given to stay over night.  Needless to say this was sometimes accepted which of course enhanced the compliment in the eyes of the farmer’s household.   

‘Why then indeed I was thinking of being able to get down to Mick Moore’s before nightfall and I wouldn’t want to put the dacent people of this household to any great trouble on my account.  Mrs Moore is a decent woman too, though indeed am’am, I would not spake of the two of ye in the wan breath and as I alays considered yerself, am’am, a trifle shuparior to any wan in this country.’

This speech, of course, only made the invitation still more pressing.  As he put by his pack and took his place in the ingle nook, the entire family gathered round to hear the news and yarns of the pedlar. 

And sometimes he told wonderful tales of happenings ‘down the country’, of lambs and calves born with several heads and eyes; of ‘moving accidents by flood and field’ that were certainly never recorded in the columns of the local newspaper.  Sometimes the pedlar was gifted with a voice, and the strains of the ‘Cailin Deas Crutha na mbo’ served to brighten the passing hour.

Then when the morning arose, the pedlar was up bright and early, and after a hearty breakfast started anew on his daily rounds. 

Nowadays nobody thinks of entertaining his dusky counterpart and the native pedlar is remembered only by those who sigh for ‘the good old days’.