It's on the wild Irish dawn of a raw March day, 1845, her caul split, her water spilt, the 15-year-old motherless lass begins her labor. And it's night follows day in skirling cries to God and His holy angels, and the midwife's tireless urges of, "Poosh doon, lass " while the terrified girl clenches the woman's wrist in a grip could choke a Connemara stallion. As a last chance, with hands that's last shoveled dung from a pigsty, the midwife fetches the magical twig and brushes it around the birth canal. And it's in renewed tearing and tugging she finds success, guiding the babby's head to...