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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/31765-8.txt b/31765-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9aa56ce --- /dev/null +++ b/31765-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4828 @@ +Project Gutenberg's My Lady of the Chimney Corner, by Alexander Irvine + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: My Lady of the Chimney Corner + +Author: Alexander Irvine + +Release Date: March 25, 2010 [EBook #31765] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY CORNER *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Joseph R. Hauser and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +MY LADY OF THE +CHIMNEY CORNER + + +BY +ALEXANDER IRVINE + + + + +AUTHOR OF "FROM THE BOTTOM UP," ETC. + + +NEW YORK +THE CENTURY CO. +1914 + + + + +Copyright, 1913, by +THE CENTURY CO. +_Published, August, 1913_ + + + + +TO +LADY GREGORY +AND +THE PLAYERS OF THE ABBEY THEATRE +DUBLIN + + + + +FOREWORD + + +This book is the torn manuscript of the most beautiful life I ever knew. +I have merely pieced and patched it together, and have not even changed +or disguised the names of the little group of neighbors who lived with +us, at "the bottom of the world." A. I. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER PAGE + + I LOVE IS ENOUGH 3 + + II THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 21 + + III REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 38 + + IV SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 63 + + V HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 85 + + VI THE APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 110 + + VII IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 133 + +VIII THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 153 + + IX "BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' TH' CLOUDS" 171 + + X THE EMPTY CORNER 198 + + + + +MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER + +A STORY OF LOVE AND POVERTY IN +IRISH PEASANT LIFE + + + + +CHAPTER I + +LOVE IS ENOUGH + + +"Anna's purty, an' she's good as well as purty, but th' beauty an' +goodness that's hers is short lived, I'm thinkin'," said old Bridget +McGrady to her neighbor Mrs. Tierney, as Mrs. Gilmore passed the door, +leading her five-year-old girl, Anna, by the hand. The old women were +sitting on the doorstep as the worshipers came down the lane from early +mass on a summer morning. + +"Thrue for you, Bridget, for th' do say that th' Virgin takes all sich +childther before they're ten." + +"Musha, but Mrs. Gilmore'll take on terrible," continued Mrs. Tierney, +"but th' will of God must be done." + +Anna was dressed in a dainty pink dress. A wide blue ribbon kept her +wealth of jet black hair in order as it hung down her back and the +squeaking of her little shoes drew attention to the fact that they were +new and in the fashion. + +"It's a mortal pity she's a girl," said Bridget, "bekase she might hev +been an althar boy before she goes." + +"Aye, but if she was a bhoy shure there's no tellin' what divilmint +she'd get into; so maybe it's just as well." + +The Gilmores lived on a small farm near Crumlin in County Antrim. They +were not considered "well to do," neither were they poor. They worked +hard and by dint of economy managed to keep their children at school. +Anna was a favorite child. Her quiet demeanor and gentle disposition +drew to her many considerations denied the rest of the family. She was a +favorite in the community. By the old women she was considered "too good +to live"; she took "kindly" to the house of God. Her teacher said, "Anna +has a great head for learning." This expression, oft repeated, gave the +Gilmores an ambition to prepare Anna for teaching. Despite the schedule +arranged for her she was confirmed in the parish chapel at the age of +ten. At fifteen she had exhausted the educational facilities of the +community and set her heart on institutions of higher learning in the +larger cities. While her parents were figuring that way the boys of the +parish were figuring in a different direction. Before Anna was seventeen +there was scarcely a boy living within miles who had not at one time or +another lingered around the gate of the Gilmore garden. Mrs. Gilmore +watched Anna carefully. She warned her against the danger of an +alliance with a boy of a lower station. The girl was devoted to the +Church. She knew her Book of Devotions as few of the older people knew +it, and before she was twelve she had read the Lives of the Saints. None +of these things made her an ascetic. She could laugh heartily and had a +keen sense of humor. + +The old women revised their prophecies. They now spoke of her "takin' +th' veil." Some said she would make "a gey good schoolmisthress," for +she was fond of children. + +While waiting the completion of arrangements to continue her schooling, +she helped her mother with the household work. She spent a good deal of +her time, too, in helping the old and disabled of the village. She +carried water to them from the village well and tidied up their cottages +at least once a week. + +The village well was the point of departure in many a romance. There +the boys and girls met several times a day. Many a boy's first act of +chivalry was to take the girl's place under the hoop that kept the cans +apart and carry home the supply of water. + +Half a century after the incident that played havoc with the dreams and +visions of which she was the central figure, Anna said to me: + +"I was fillin' my cans at th' well. He was standin' there lukin' at me. + +"'Wud ye mind,' says he, 'if I helped ye?' + +"'Deed no, not at all,' says I. So he filled my cans an' then says he: +'I would give you a nice wee cow if I cud carry thim home fur ye.' + +"'It's not home I'm goin',' says I, 'but to an' oul neighbor who can't +carry it herself.' + +"'So much th' betther fur me,' says he, an' off he walked between the +cans. At Mary McKinstry's doore that afthernoon we stood till the +shadows began t' fall." + +From the accounts rendered, old Mary did not lack for water-carriers for +months after that. One evening Mary made tea for the water-carriers and +after tea she "tossed th' cups" for them. + +"Here's two roads, dear," she said to Anna, "an' wan day ye'll haave t' +choose betwixt thim. On wan road there's love an' clane teeth (poverty), +an' on t'other riches an' hell on earth." + +"What else do you see on the roads, Mary?" Anna asked. + +"Plenty ov childther on th' road t' clane teeth, an' dogs an' cats on +th' road t' good livin'." + +"What haave ye fur me, Mary?" Jamie Irvine, Anna's friend, asked. She +took his cup, gave it a shake, looked wise and said: "Begorra, I see a +big cup, me bhoy--it's a cup o' grief I'm thinkin' it is." + +"Oul Mary was jist bletherin'," he said, as they walked down the road +in the gloaming, hand in hand. + +"A cup of sorrow isn't so bad, Jamie, when there's two to drink it," +Anna said. He pressed her hand tighter and replied: + +"Aye, that's thrue, fur then it's only half a cup." + +Jamie was a shoemaker's apprentice. His parents were very poor. The +struggle for existence left time for nothing else. As the children +reached the age of eight or nine they entered the struggle. Jamie began +when he was eight. He had never spent a day at school. His family +considered him fortunate, however, that he could be an apprentice. + +The cup that old Mary saw in the tea leaves seemed something more than +"blether" when it was noised abroad that Anna and Jamie were to be +married. + +The Gilmores strenuously objected. They objected because they had +another career mapped out for Anna. Jamie was illiterate, too, and she +was well educated. He was a Protestant and she an ardent Catholic. +Illiteracy was common enough and might be overlooked, but a mixed +marriage was unthinkable. + +The Irvines, on the other hand, although very poor, could see nothing +but disaster in marriage with a Catholic, even though she was as "pure +and beautiful as the Virgin." + +"It's a shame an' a scandal," others said, "that a young fella who can't +read his own name shud marry sich a nice girl wi' sich larnin'." + +Jamie made some defense but it wasn't convincing. + +"Doesn't the Bible say maan an' wife are wan?" he asked Mrs. Gilmore in +discussing the question with her. + +"Aye." + +"Well, when Anna an' me are wan won't she haave a thrade an' won't I +haave an education?" + +"That's wan way ov lukin' at a vexed question, but you're th' only wan +that luks at it that way!" + +"There's two," Anna said. "That's how I see it." + +When Jamie became a journeyman shoemaker, the priest was asked to +perform the marriage ceremony. He refused and there was nothing left to +do but get a man who would give love as big a place as religion, and +they were married by the vicar of the parish church. + +Not in the memory of man in that community had a wedding created so +little interest in one way and so much in another. They were both +"turncoats," the people said, and they were shunned by both sides. So +they drank their first big draft of the "cup o' grief" on their +wedding-day. + +"Sufferin' will be yer portion in this world," Anna's mother told her, +"an' in th' world t' come separation from yer maan." + +Anna kissed her mother and said: + +"I've made my choice, mother, I've made it before God, and as for +Jamie's welfare in the next world, I'm sure that love like his would +turn either Limbo, Purgatory or Hell into a very nice place to live in!" + +A few days after the wedding the young couple went out to the four +cross-roads. Jamie stood his staff on end and said: + +"Are ye ready, dear?" + +"Aye, I'm ready, but don't tip it in the direction of your preference!" +He was inclined toward Dublin, she toward Belfast. They laughed. Jamie +suddenly took his hand from the staff and it fell, neither toward +Belfast nor Dublin, but toward the town of Antrim, and toward Antrim +they set out on foot. It was a distance of less than ten miles, but it +was the longest journey she ever took--and the shortest, for she had all +the world beside her, and so had Jamie. It was in June, and they had all +the time there was. There was no hurry. They were as care-free as +children and utilized their freedom in full. Between Moira and Antrim +they came to Willie Withero's stone pile. Willie was Antrim's most noted +stone-breaker in those days. He was one of the town's news centers. At +his stone-pile he got the news going and coming. He was a strange +mixture of philosophy and cynicism. He had a rough exterior and spoke in +short, curt, snappish sentences, but behind it all he had a big heart +full of kindly human feeling. + +"Anthrim's a purty good place fur pigs an' sich to live in," he told the +travelers. "Ye see, pigs is naither Fenians nor Orangemen. I get along +purty well m'self bekase I sit on both sides ov th' fence at th' same +time." + +"How do you do it, Misther Withero?" Anna asked demurely. + +"Don't call me 'Misther,'" Willie said; "only quality calls me 'Misther' +an' I don't like it--it doesn't fit an honest stone breaker." The +question was repeated and he said: "I wear a green ribbon on Pathrick's +Day an' an orange cockade on th' Twelfth ov July, an' if th' ax m' why, +I tell thim t' go t' h--l! That's Withero fur ye an' wan ov 'im is +enough fur Anthrim, that's why I niver married, an' that'll save ye the +throuble ov axin' me whither I've got a wife or no!" + +"What church d'ye attend, Willie?" Jamie asked. + +"Church is it, ye're axin' about? Luk here, me bhoy, step over th' +stile." Willie led the way over into the field. + +"Step over here, me girl." Anna followed. A few yards from the hedge +there was an ant-hill. + +"See thim ants?" + +"Aye." + +"Now if Withero thought thim ants hated aych other like th' men ov +Anthrim d'ye know what I'd do?" + +"What?" + +"I'd pour a kittle ov boilin' wather on thim an' roast th' hides off +ivery mother's son ov thim. Aye, that's what I'd do, shure as gun's +iron!" + +"That would be a sure and speedy cure," Anna said, smiling. + +"What's this world but an ant-hill?" he asked. "Jist a big ant-hill an' +we're ants begorra an' uncles, but instead ov workin' like these wee +fellas do--help aych other an' shouldther aych other's burdens, an' +build up th' town, an' forage fur fodder, begobs we cut aych other's +throats over th' color ov ribbon or th' kind ov a church we attind! Ugh, +what balderdash!" + +The stone-breaker dropped on his knees beside the ant-hill and eyed the +manoeuvering of the ants. + +"Luk here!" he said. + +They looked in the direction of his pointed finger and observed an ant +dragging a dead fly over the hill. + +"Jist watch that wee fella!" They watched. The ant had a big job, but +it pulled and pushed the big awkward carcass over the side of the hill. +A second ant came along, sized up the situation, and took a hand. "Ha, +ha!" he chortled, "that's th' ticket, now kape yez eye on him!" + +The ants dragged the fly over the top of the hill and stuffed it down a +hole. + +"Now," said Withero, "if a fella in Anthrim wanted a han' th' other +fellah wud say: 'Where d'ye hing yer hat up on Sunday?' or some other +sich fool question!" + +"He wud that." + +"Now mind ye, I'm not huffed at th' churches, aither Orange or Green, or +th' praychers aither--tho 'pon m' sowl ivery time I luk at wan o' thim I +think ov God as a first class journeyman tailor! But I get more good +switherin' over an ant-hill than whin wan o' thim wee praychers thry t' +make me feel as miserable as th' divil!" + +"There's somethin' in that," Jamie said. + +"Aye, ye kin bate a pair ov oul boots there is!" + +"What will th' ants do wi' th' fly?" Jamie asked. + +"Huh!" he grunted with an air of authority, "they'll haave rump steaks +fur tay and fly broth fur breakvist th' morra!" + +"Th' don't need praychers down there, do th', Willie?" + +"Don't need thim up here!" he said. "They're sign-boards t' point th' +way that iverybody knows as well as th' nose on his face!" + +"Good-by," Anna said, as they prepared to leave. + +"Good-by, an' God save ye both kindly," were Willie's parting words. He +adjusted the wire protectors to his eyes and the sojourners went on down +the road. + +They found a mossy bank and unpacked their dinner. + +"Quare, isn't he?" Jamie said. + +"He has more sense than any of our people." + +"That's no compliment t' Withero, Anna, but I was jist thinkin' about +our case; we've got t' decide somethin' an' we might as well decide it +here as aanywhere." + +"About religion, Jamie?" + +"Aye." + +"I've decided." + +"When?" + +"At the ant-hill." + +"Ye cudn't be Withero?" + +"No, dear, Willie sees only half th' world. There's love in it that's +bigger than color of ribbon or creed of church. We've proven that, +Jamie, haven't we?" + +"But what haave ye decided?" + +"That love is bigger than religion. That two things are sure. One is +love of God. He loves all His children and gets huffed at none. The +other is that the love we have for each other is of the same warp and +woof as His for us, and _love is enough_, Jamie." + +"Aye, love is shure enough an' enough's as good as a faste, but what +about childther if th' come, Anna?" + +"We don't cross a stile till we come to it, do we?" + +"That's right, that's right, acushla; now we're as rich as lords, aren't +we, but I'm th' richest, amn't I? I've got you an' you've only got me." + +"I've got book learning, but you've got love and a trade, what more do I +want? You've got more love than any man that ever wooed a woman--so I'm +richer, amn't I?" + +"Oh, God," Jamie said, "but isn't this th' lovely world, eh, Anna?" + +Within a mile of Antrim they saw a cottage, perched on a high bluff by +the roadside. It was reached by stone steps. They climbed the steps to +ask for a drink of water. They were kindly received. The owner was a +follower of Wesley and his conversation at the well was in sharp +contrast to the philosophy at the stone-pile. The young journeyman and +his wife were profoundly impressed with the place. The stone cottage was +vine-clad. There were beautiful trees and a garden. The June flowers +were in bloom and a cow grazed in the pasture near by. + +"Some day we'll haave a home like this," Jamie said as they descended +the steps. Anna named it "The Mount of Temptation," for it was the +nearest she had ever been to the sin of envy. A one-armed Crimean +pensioner named Steele occupied it during my youth. It could be seen +from Pogue's entry and Anna used to point it out and tell the story of +that memorable journey. In days when clouds were heavy and low and the +gaunt wolf stood at the door she would say: "Do you mind the journey to +Antrim, Jamie?" + +"Aye," he would say with a sigh, "an' we've been in love ever since, +haven't we, Anna?" + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER + + +For a year after their arrival in Antrim they lived in the home of the +master-shoemaker for whom Jamie worked as journeyman. It was a great +hardship, for there was no privacy and their daily walk and +conversation, in front of strangers, was of the "yea, yea" and "nay, +nay" order. In the summer time they spent their Sundays on the banks of +Lough Neagh, taking whatever food they needed and cooking it on the +sand. They continued their courting in that way. They watched the +water-fowl on the great wide marsh, they waded in the water and played +as children play. In more serious moods she read to him Moore's poems +and went over the later lessons of her school life. Even with but part +of a day in each week together they were very happy. The world was full +of sunshine for them then. There were no clouds, no regrets, no fears. +It was a period--a brief period--that for the rest of their lives they +looked back upon as a time when they really lived. I am not sure, but I +am of the impression that the chief reason she could not be persuaded to +visit the Lough in later life was because she wanted to remember it as +she had seen it in that first year of their married life. + +Their first child was two years of age when the famine came--the famine +that swept over Ireland like a plague, leaving in its wake over a +million new-made graves. They had been in their own house for over a +year. It was scantily furnished, but it was _home_. As the ravages of +the famine spread, nearly every family in the town mourned the absence +of some member. Men and women met on the street one day, were gone the +next. Jamie put his bench to one side and sought work at anything he +could get to do. Prices ran up beyond the possibilities of the poor. The +potato crop only failed. The other crops were reaped and the proceeds +sent to England as rent and interest, and the reapers having sent the +last farthing, lay down with their wives and children and died. Of the +million who died four hundred thousand were able-bodied men. The wolf +stood at every door. The carpenter alone was busy. Of course it was the +poor who died--the poor only. In her three years of married life Anna +realized in a measure that the future held little change for her or her +husband, but she saw a ray of hope for the boy in the cradle. When the +foodless days came and the child was not getting food enough to survive, +she gave vent to her feelings of despair. Jamie did not quite understand +when she spoke of the death of hope. + +"Spake what's in yer heart plainly, Anna!" he said plaintively. + +"Jamie, we must not blame each other for anything, but we must face the +fact--we live at the bottom of the world where every hope has a +headstone--a headstone that only waits for the name." + +"Aye, dear, God help us, I know, I know what ye mane." + +"Above and beyond us," she continued, "there is a world of nice +things--books, furniture, pictures--a world where people and things can +be kept clean, but it's a world we could never reach. But I had hope"-- + +She buried her face in her hands and was silent. + +"Aye, aye, acushla, I know yer hope's in the boy, but don't give up. +We'll fight it out together if th' worst comes to th' worst. The boy'll +live, shure he will!" + +He could not bear the agony on her face. It distracted him. He went out +and sought solitude on a pile of stones back of the house. There was no +solitude there, nor could he have remained long if there had been. He +returned and drawing a stool up close beside her he sat down and put an +arm tenderly over her shoulder. + +"Cheer up, wee girl," he said, "our ship's comin' in soon." + +"If we can only save him!" she said, pointing to the cradle. + +"Well, we won't cry over spilt milk, dear--not at laste until it's +spilt." + +"Ah," she exclaimed, "I had such hopes for him!" + +"Aye, so haave I, but thin again I've thought t' myself, suppose th' wee +fella did get t' be kind-a quality like, wudn't he be ashamed ov me an' +you maybe, an' shure an ingrate that's somethin' is worse than nothin'!" + +"A child born in pure love couldn't be an ingrate, Jamie; that isn't +possible, dear." + +"Ah, who knows what a chile will be, Anna?" + +The child awoke and began to cry. It was a cry for food. There was +nothing in the house; there had been nothing all that day. They looked +at each other. Jamie turned away his face. He arose and left the house. +He went aimlessly down the street wondering where he should try for +something to eat for the child. There were several old friends whom he +supposed were in the same predicament, but to whom he had not appealed. +It was getting to be an old story. A score of as good children as his +had been buried. Everybody was polite, full of sympathy, but the child +was losing his vitality, so was the mother. Something desperate must be +done and done at once. For the third time he importuned a grocer at +whose shop he had spent much money. The grocer was just putting up the +window shutters for the night. + +"If ye cud jist spare us a ha'p'orth ov milk to keep th' life in th' +chile fur th' night?" he pleaded. + +"It wudn't be a thimbleful if I had it, Jamie, but I haven't--we haave +childther ov our own, ye know, an' life is life!" + +"Aye, aye," he said, "I know, I know," and shuffled out again. Back to +the house he went. He lifted the latch gently and tiptoed in. Anna was +rocking the child to sleep. He went softly to the table and took up a +tin can and turned again toward the door. + +Anna divined his stealthy movement. She was beside him in an instant. + +"Where are you going, Jamie?" He hesitated. She forced an answer. + +"Jamie," she said in a tone new to her, "there's been nothing but truth +and love between us; I must know." + +"I'm goin' out wi' that can to get somethin' fur that chile, Anna, if I +haave t' swing fur it. That's what's in my mind an' God help me!" + +"God help us both," she said. + +He moved toward the street. She planted herself between him and the +door. + +"No, we must stand together. They'll put you in jail and then the child +and I will die anyway. Let's wait another day!" + +They sat down together in the corner. It was dark now and they had no +candle. The last handful of turf was on the fire. They watched the +sparks play and the fitful spurts of flame light up for an instant at a +time the darkened home. It was a picture of despair--the first of a long +series that ran down the years with them. They sat in silence for a long +time. Then they whispered to each other with many a break the words they +had spoken in what now seemed to them the long ago. The fire died out. +They retired, but not to sleep. They were too hungry. There was an +insatiable gnawing at their vitals that made sleep impossible. It was +like a cancer with excruciating pain added. Sheer exhaustion only, +stilled the cries of the starving child. There were no more tears in +their eyes, but anguish has by-valves more keen, poignant and subtle. + +In agony they lay in silence and counted time by the repercussion of +pain until the welcome dawn came with its new supply of hope. The scream +of a frenzied mother who had lost a child in the night was the prelude +to a tragic day. Anna dressed quickly and in a few minutes stood by the +side of the woman. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do. It was her +turn. It would be Anna's next. All over the town the specter hovered. +Every day the reaper garnered a new harvest of human sheaves. Every day +the wolf barked. Every day the carpenter came. + +When Anna returned Jamie had gone. She took her station by the child. +Jamie took the tin can and went out along the Gray-stone road for about +a mile and entered a pasture where three cows were grazing. He was weak +and nervous. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled. He had +never milked a cow. He had no idea of the difficulty involved in +catching a cow and milking her in a pasture. There was the milk and +yonder his child, who without it would not survive the day. Desperation +dominated and directed every movement. + +The cows walked away as he approached. He followed. He drove them into a +corner of the field and managed to get his hand on one. He tried to pet +her, but the jingling of the can frightened her and off they went--all +of them--on a fast trot along the side of the field. He became cautious +as he cornered them a second time. This time he succeeded in reaching an +udder. He got a tit in his hand. He lowered himself to his haunches and +proceeded to tug vigorously. His hand was waxy and stuck as if glued to +the flesh. Before there was any sign of milk the cow gave him a swift +kick that sent him flat on his back. By the time he pulled himself +together again the cows were galloping to the other end of the pasture. + +"God!" he muttered as he mopped the sweat from his face with his +sleeve, "if ye've got aany pity or kindly feelin' giv me a sup ov that +milk fur m' chile! Come on!" + +His legs trembled so that he could scarcely stand. Again he approached. +The cows eyed him with sullen concern. They were thoroughly scared now +and he couldn't get near enough to lay a hand on any of them. He stood +in despair, trembling from head to foot. He realized that what he would +do he must do quickly. + +The morning had swift wings--it was flying away. Some one would be out +for the cows ere long and his last chance would be gone. He dropped the +can and ran to the farm-house. There was a stack-yard in the rear. He +entered and took a rope from a stack. It was a long rope--too long for +his use, but he did not want to destroy its usefulness. He dragged it +through the hedge after him. This time with care and caution he got near +enough to throw the rope over the horns of a cow. Leading her to a +fence he tied her to it and began again. It came slowly. His strength +was almost gone. He went from one side to the other--now at one tit, now +at another. From his haunches he went to his knees and from that +position he stretched out his legs and sat flat on the grass. He no +sooner had a good position than the cow would change hers. She trampled +on his legs and swerved from side to side, but he held on. It was a life +and death struggle. The little milk at the bottom of the can gave him +strength and courage. As he literally pulled it out of her his strength +increased. When the can was half full he turned the cow loose and made +for the gap in the hedge. Within a yard of it he heard the loud report +of a gun and the can dropped to the ground. The ball had plowed through +both lugs of the can disconnecting the wire handle. Not much of the milk +was lost. He picked up the can and started down the road as fast as his +legs could take him. He had only gone a hundred yards when a man stepped +out into the road and leveled a gun at him. + +"Another yard an' I'll blow yer brains out!" the man said. + +"Is this yer milk?" Jamie asked. + +"Aye, an' well ye know it's m' milk!" + +Jamie put the can down on the road and stood silent. The farmer +delivered himself of a volume of profane abuse. Jamie did not reply. He +stood with his head bowed and to all appearances in a mood of penitence. + +When the man finished his threats and abuse he stooped to pick up the +can. Before his hand touched it Jamie sprang at him with the ferocity of +a panther. There was a life and death tussle for a few seconds and both +men went down on the road--Jamie on top. Sitting on the man's chest he +took a wrist in each hand and pinned him to the ground. + +"Ye think I'm a thief," he said to the man as he looked at him with eyes +that burned like live coals. "I'm not, I'm an honest maan, but I haave a +chile dying wi' hunger--now it's your life or his, by ---- an' ye'll +decide!" + +"I think yer a liar as well as a thief," the man said, "but if we can +prove what ye say I'm yer friend." + +"Will ye go with me?" + +"Aye." + +"D'ye mane it?" + +"Aye, I do!" + +"I'll carry th' gun." + +"Ye may, there's nothin' in it." + +"There's enough in th' butt t' batther a maan's brains out." + +Jamie seized the gun and the can and the man got up. + +They walked down the road in silence, each watching the other out of the +corners of his eyes. + +"D'ye believe in God?" Jamie asked abruptly. The farmer hesitated +before answering. + +"Why d'ye ask?" + +"I'd like t' see a maan in these times that believed wi' his heart +insted ov his mouth!" + +"Wud he let other people milk his cows?" asked the man, sneeringly. + +"He mightn't haave cows t' milk," Jamie said. "But he'd be kind and not +a glutton!" + +They arrived at the house. The man went in first. He stopped near the +door and Jamie instinctively and in fear shot past him. What he saw +dazed him. "Ah, God!" he exclaimed. "She's dead!" + +Anna lay on her back on the floor and the boy was asleep by the hearth +with his head in the ashes. The neighbors were alarmed and came to +assist. The farmer felt Anna's pulse. It was feebly fluttering. + +"She's not dead," he said. "Get some cold wather quickly!" They dashed +the water in her face and brought her back to consciousness. When she +looked around she said: + +"Who 's this kind man come in to help, Jamie?" + +"He's a farmer," Jamie said, "an' he's brot ye a pint ov nice fresh +milk!" The man had filled a cup with milk and put it to Anna's lips. She +refused. "He's dying," she said, pointing to the boy, who lay limp on +the lap of a neighbor. The child was drowsy and listless. They gave him +the cup of milk. He had scarcely enough strength to drink. Anna drank +what was left, which was very little. + +"God bless you!" Anna said as she held out her hand to the farmer. + +"God save you kindly," he answered as he took her hand and bowed his +head. + +"I've a wife an' wains myself," he continued, "but we're not s' bad off +on a farm." Turning to Jamie he said: "Yer a Protestant!" + +"Aye." + +"An' I'm a Fenian, but we're in t' face ov bigger things!" + +He extended his hand. Jamie clasped it, the men looked into each other's +faces and understood. + +That night in the dusk, the Fenian farmer brought a sack of potatoes and +a quart of fresh milk and the spark of life was prolonged. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW + + +Famine not only carried off a million of the living, but it claimed also +the unborn. Anna's second child was born a few months after the siege +was broken, but the child had been starved in its mother's womb and +lived only three months. There was no wake. Wakes are for older people. +There were no candles to burn, no extra sheet to put over the old +dresser, and no clock to stop at the moment of death. + +The little wasted thing lay in its undressed pine coffin on the table +and the neighbors came in and had a look. Custom said it should be kept +the allotted time and the tyrant was obeyed. A dozen of those to whom a +wake was a means of change and recreation came late and planted +themselves for the night. + +"Ye didn't haave a hard time wi' th' second, did ye, Anna?" asked Mrs. +Mulholland. + +"No," Anna said quietly. + +"Th' hard times play'd th' divil wi' it before it was born, I'll be +bound," said a second. + +A third averred that the child was "the very spit out of its father's +mouth." Ghost stories, stories of the famine, of hard luck, of hunger, +of pain and the thousand and one aspects of social and personal sorrow +had the changes rung on them. + +Anna sat in the corner. She had to listen, she had to answer when +directly addressed and the prevailing idea of politeness made her the +center of every story and the object of every moral! + +The refreshments were all distributed and diplomatically the mourners +were informed that there was nothing more; nevertheless they stayed on +and on. Nerve-racked and unstrung, Anna staggered to her feet and took +Jamie to the door. + +"I'll go mad, dear, if I have to stand it all night!" + +They dared not be discourteous. A reputation for heartlessness would +have followed Anna to the grave if she had gone to bed while the dead +child lay there. + +Withero had been at old William Farren's wake and was going home when he +saw Anna and Jamie at the door. They explained the situation. + +"Take a dandther down toward th' church," he said, "an' then come back." + +Willie entered the house in an apparently breathless condition. + +"Yer takin' it purty aisy here," he said, "whin 'Jowler' Hainey's +killin' his wife an' wreckin' th' house!" + +In about two minutes he was alone. He put a coal in his pipe and smoked +for a minute. Then he went over to the little coffin. He took his pipe +out of his mouth, laid it on the mantel-shelf and returned. The little +hands were folded. He unclasped them, took one of them in his rough +calloused palm. + +"Poore wee thing," he said in an undertone, "poore wee thing." He put +the hands as he found them. Still looking at the little baby face he +added: + +"Heigho, heigho, it's bad, purty bad, but it's worse where there isn't +even a dead wan!" + +When Anna returned she lay down on her bed, dressed as she was, and +Jamie and Withero kept the vigil--with the door barred. Next morning at +the earliest respectable hour Withero carried the little coffin under +his arm and Jamie walked beside him to the graveyard. + +During the fifteen years that followed the burial of "the famine child" +they buried three others and saved three--four living and four dead. + +I was the ninth child. Anna gave me a Greek name which means "Helper of +men." + +Shortly after my arrival in Scott's entry, they moved to Pogue's entry. +The stone cabin was thatch-covered and measured about twelve by sixteen +feet. The space comprised three apartments. One, a bedroom; over the +bedroom and beneath the thatch a little loft that served as a bedroom to +those of climbing age. The rest of it was workshop, dining-room, +sitting-room, parlor and general community news center. The old folks +slept in a bed, the rest of us slept on the floor and beneath the +thatch. Between the bedroom door and the open fireplace was the +chimney-corner. Near the door stood an old pine table and some dressers. +They stood against the wall and were filled with crockery. We never +owned a chair. There were several pine stools, a few creepies (small +stools), and a long bench that ran along the bedroom wall, from the +chimney corner to the bedroom door. The mud floor never had the luxury +of a covering, nor did a picture ever adorn the bare walls. When the +floor needed patching, Jamie went to somebody's garden, brought a +shovelful of earth, mixed it and filled the holes. The stools and +creepies were scrubbed once a week, the table once a day. I could draw +an outline of that old table now and accurately mark every dent and +crack in it. I do not know where it came from, but each of us had a +_hope_ that one day we should possess a pig. We built around the hope a +sty and placed it against the end of the cabin. The pig never turned up, +but the hope lived there throughout a generation! + +We owned a goat once. In three months it reduced the smooth kindly +feeling in Pogue's entry to the point of total eclipse. We sold it and +spent a year in winning back old friends. We had a garden. It measured +thirty-six by sixteen inches, and was just outside the front window. At +one end was a small currant bush and in the rest of the space Anna grew +an annual crop of nasturtiums. + +Once we were prosperous. That was when two older brothers worked with my +father at shoemaking. I remember them, on winter nights, sitting around +the big candlestick--one of the three always singing folk-songs as he +worked. As they worked near the window, Anna sat in her corner and by +the light of a candle in her little sconce made waxed ends for the men. +I browsed among the lasts, clipping, cutting and scratching old leather +parings and dreaming of the wonderful days beyond when I too could make +a boot and sing "Black-eyed Susan." + +Then the news came--news of a revolution. + +"They're making boots by machinery now," Anna said one day. + +"It's dotin' ye are, Anna," Jamie replied. She read the account. + +"How cud a machine make a boot, Anna?" he asked in bewilderment. + +"I don't know, dear." + +Barney McQuillan was the village authority on such things. When he told +Jamie, he looked aghast and said, "How quare!" + +Then makers became menders--shoemakers became cobblers. There was +something of magic and romance in the news that a machine could turn out +as much work as twenty-five men, but when my brothers moved away to +other parts of the world to find work, the romance was rubbed off. + +"Maybe we can get a machine?" Jamie said. + +"Aye, but shure ye'd have to get a factory to put it in!" + +"Is that so?" + +"Aye, an' we find it hard enough t' pay fur what we're in now!" + +Barney McQuillan was the master-shoe-maker in our town who was best +able to readjust himself to changed conditions. He became a +master-cobbler and doled out what he took in to men like Jamie. He kept +a dozen men at work, making a little off each, just as the owner of the +machine did in the factory. In each case the need of skill vanished and +the power of capital advanced. Jamie dumbly took what was left--cobbling +for Barney. To Anna the whole thing meant merely the death of a few more +hopes. For over twenty years she had fought a good fight, a fight in +which she played a losing part, though she was never wholly defeated. + +Her first fight was against slang and slovenly speech. She started early +in their married life to correct Jamie. He tried hard and often, but he +found it difficult to speak one language to his wife and another to his +customers. From the lips of Anna, it sounded all right, but the same +pronunciation by Jamie seemed affected and his customers gaped at him. + +Then she directed her efforts anew to the children. One after another +she corrected their grammar and pronunciation, corrected them every day +and every hour of the day that they were in her presence. Here again she +was doomed to failure. The children lived on the street and spoke its +language. It seemed a hopeless task. She never whined over it. She was +too busy cleaning, cooking, sewing and at odd times helping Jamie, but +night after night for nearly a generation she took stock of a life's +effort and each milestone on the way spelt failure. She could see no +light--not a glimmer. Not only had she failed to impress her language +upon others, but she found herself gradually succumbing to her +environment and actually lapsing into vulgar forms herself. There was a +larger and more vital conflict than the one she had lost. It was the +fight against dirt. In such small quarters, with so many children and +such activity in work she fought against great odds. Bathing facilities +were almost impossible: water had to be brought from the town well, +except what fell on the roof, and that was saved for washing clothes. +Whatever bathing there was, was done in the tub in which Jamie steeped +his leather. We children were suspicious that when Jamie bathed Anna had +a hand in it. They had a joke between them that could only be explained +on that basis. She called it "grooming the elephant." + +"Jist wait, m' boy," she would say in a spirit of kindly banter, "till +the elephant has to be groomed, and I'll bring ye down a peg or two." + +There was a difference of opinion among them as to the training of +children. + +"No chile iver thrived on saft words," he said; "a wet welt is +betther." + +"Aye, yer wet welt stings th' flesh, Jamie, but it niver gets at a +chile's mind." + +"Thrue for you, but who th' ---- kin get at a chile's mind?" + +One day I was chased into the house by a bigger boy. I had found a +farthing. He said it was his. The money was handed over and the boy left +with his tongue in his cheek. I was ordered to strip. When ready he laid +me across his knee and applied the "wet welt." + +An hour later it was discovered that a week had elapsed between the +losing and finding of the farthing. No sane person would believe that a +farthing could lie for a whole week on the streets of Antrim. + +"Well," he said, "ye need a warmin' like that ivery day, an' ye had nown +yestherday, did ye?" + +On another occasion I found a ball, one that had never been lost. A boy, +hoping to get me in front of my father, claimed the ball. My mother on +this occasion sat in judgment. + +"Where did _you_ get the ball?" she asked the boy. He couldn't remember. +She probed for the truth, but neither of us would give in. When all +efforts failed she cut the ball in half and gave each a piece! + +"Nixt time I'll tell yer Dah," the boy said when he got outside, "he +makes you squeal like a pig." + +When times were good--when work and wages got a little ahead of hunger, +which was seldom, Anna baked her own bread. Three kinds of bread she +baked. "Soda,"--common flour bread, never in the shape of a loaf, but +bread that lay flat on the griddle; "pirta oaten"--made of flour and +oatmeal; and "fadge"--potato bread. She always sung while baking and she +sang the most melancholy and plaintive airs. As she baked and sang I +stood beside her on a creepie watching the process and awaiting the +end, for at the close of each batch of bread I always had my +"duragh"--an extra piece. + +When hunger got ahead of wages the family bread was bought at Sam +Johnson's bakery. The journey to Sam's was full of temptation to me. +Hungry and with a vested interest in the loaf on my arm, I was not over +punctilious in details of the moral law. Anna pointed out the +opportunities of such a journey. It was a chance to try my mettle with +the arch tempter. It was a mental gymnasium in which moral muscle got +strength. There wasn't in all Ireland a mile of highway so well paved +with good intentions. I used to start out, well keyed up morally and +humming over and over the order of the day. When, on the home stretch, I +had made a dent in Sam's architecture, I would lay the loaf down on the +table, good side toward my mother. While I was doing that she had read +the story of the fall on my face. I could feel her penetrating gaze. + +"So he got ye, did he?" + +"Aye," I would say in a voice too low to be heard by my father. + +The order at Sam's was usually a sixpenny loaf, three ha'pence worth of +tea and sugar and half an ounce of tobacco. + +There were times when Barney had no work for my father, and on such +occasions I came home empty-handed. Then Jamie would go out to find work +as a day laborer. Periods like these were glossed over by Anna's humor +and wit. As they sat around the table, eating "stir-about" without milk, +or bread without tea, Jamie would grunt and complain. + +"Aye, faith," Anna would say, "it's purty bad, but it's worse where +there's none at all!" + +When the wolf lingered long at the door I went foraging--foraging as +forages a hungry dog and in the same places. Around the hovels of the +poor where dogs have clean teeth a boy has little chance. One day, +having exhausted the ordinary channels of relief without success, I +betook myself to the old swimming-hole on the mill race. The boys had a +custom of taking a "shiverin' bite" when they went bathing. It was on a +Sunday afternoon in July and quite a crowd sat around the hole. I +neither needed nor wanted a bath--I wanted a bite. No one offered a +share of his crust. A big boy named Healy was telling of his prowess as +a fighter. + +"I'll fight ye fur a penny!" said I. + +"Where's yer penny?" said Healy. + +"I'll get it th' morra." + +A man seeing the difficulty and willing to invest in a scrap advanced +the wager. I was utterly outclassed and beaten. Peeling my clothes off I +went into the race for a swim and to wash the blood off. When I came out +Healy had hidden my trousers. I searched for hours in vain. The man who +paid the wager gave me an extra penny and I went home holding my jacket +in front of my legs. The penny saved me from a "warming," but Anna, +feeling that some extra discipline was necessary, made me a pair of +trousers out of an old potato sack. + +"That's sackcloth, dear," she said, "an' ye can aither sit in th' ashes +in them or wear them in earning another pair! Hold fast t' yer penny!" + +In this penitential outfit I had to sell my papers. Every fiber of my +being tingled with shame and humiliation. I didn't complain of the +penance, but I swore vengeance on Healy. She worked the desire for +vengeance out of my system in her chimney-corner by reading to me often +enough, so that I memorized the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah. Miss +McGee, the postmistress, gave me sixpence for the accomplishment and +that went toward a new pair of trousers. Concerning Healy, Anna said: +"Bate 'im with a betther brain, dear!" + +Despite my fistic encounters, my dents in the family loaves, my shinny, +my marbles and the various signs of total or at least partial depravity, +Anna clung to the hope that out of this thing might finally come what +she was looking, praying and hoping for. + +An item on the credit side of my ledger was that I was born in a caul--a +thin filmy veil that covered me at birth. Of her twelve I was the only +one born in "luck." In a little purse she kept the caul, and on special +occasions she would exhibit it and enumerate the benefits and privileges +that went with it. Persons born in a caul were immune from being hung, +drawn and quartered, burned to death or lost at sea. + +It was on the basis of the caul I was rented to old Mary McDonagh. My +duty was to meet her every Monday morning. The meeting insured her luck +for the week. Mary was a huckster. She carried her shop on her arm--a +wicker basket in which she had thread, needles, ribbons and other things +which she sold to the farmers and folks away from the shopping center. +No one is lucky while bare-footed. Having no shoes I clattered down +Sandy Somerville's entry in my father's. At the first clatter, she came +out, basket on arm, and said: + +"Morra, bhoy, God's blessin' on ye!" + +"Morra, Mary, an' good luck t' ye," was my answer. + +I used to express my wonder that I couldn't turn this luck of a +dead-sure variety into a pair of shoes for myself. + +Anna said: "Yer luck, dear, isn't in what ye can get, but in what ye can +give!" + +When Antrim opened its first flower show I was a boy of all work at old +Mrs. Chaine's. The gardener was pleased with my work and gave me a +hothouse plant to put in competition. I carried it home proudly and +laid it down beside her in the chimney-corner. + +"The gerd'ner says it'll bate th' brains out on aany geranium in the +show!" I said. + +"Throth it will that, dear," she said, "but sure ye couldn't take a +prize fur it!" + +"Why?" I growled. + +"Ah, honey, shure everybody would know that ye didn't grow it--forby +they know that th' smoke in here would kill it in a few days." + +I sulked and protested. + +"That's a nice way t' throw cowld wather on th' chile," Jamie said. "Why +don't ye let 'im go on an' take his chances at the show?" + +A pained look overspread her features. It was as if he had struck her +with his fist. Her eyes filled with tears and she said huskily: + +"The whole world's a show, Jamie, an' this is the only place the wee +fella has to rehearse in." + +I sat down beside her and laid my head in her lap. She stroked it in +silence for a minute or two. I couldn't quite see, however, how I could +miss that show! She saw that after all I was determined to enter the +lists. She offered to put a card on it for me so that they would know +the name of the owner. This is what she wrote on the card: + +"This plant is lent for decorative purposes." + +That night there was an unusual atmosphere in her corner. She had a +newly tallied cap on her head and her little Sunday shawl over her +shoulders. Her candle was burning and the hearthstones had an extra coat +of whitewash. She drew me up close beside her and told me a story. + +"Once, a long, long time ago, God, feelin' tired, went to sleep an' had +a nice wee nap on His throne. His head was in His han's an' a wee white +cloud came down an' covered him up. Purty soon He wakes up an' says He: + +"'Where's Michael?' + +"'Here I am, Father!' said Michael. + +"'Michael, me boy,' says God, 'I want a chariot and a charioteer!' + +"'Right ye are!' says he. Up comes the purtiest chariot in the city of +Heaven an' finest charioteer. + +"'Me boy,' says God, 'take a million tons ov th' choicest seeds of th' +flowers of Heaven an' take a trip around th' world wi' them. Scatther +them,' says He, 'be th' roadsides an' th' wild places of th' earth where +my poor live.' + +"'Aye,' says the charioteer, 'that's jist like ye, Father. It's th' +purtiest job of m' afther-life an' I'll do it finely.' + +"'It's jist come t' Me in a dream,' says th' Father, 'that th' rich have +all the flowers down there and th' poor haave nown at all. If a million +tons isn't enough take a billion tons!'" + +At this point I got in some questions about God's language and the kind +of flowers. + +"Well, dear," she said, "He spakes Irish t' Irish people and the +charioteer was an Irishman." + +"Maybe it was a wuman!" I ventured. + +"Aye, but there's no difference up there." + +"Th' flowers," she said, "were primroses, butthercups an' daisies an' +th' flowers that be handy t' th' poor, an' from that day to this there's +been flowers a-plenty for all of us everywhere!" + +"Now you go to-morra an' gether a basketful an' we'll fix them up in th' +shape of th' Pryamid of Egypt an' maybe ye'll get a prize." + +I spent the whole of the following day, from dawn to dark, roaming over +the wild places near Antrim gathering the flowers of the poor. My +mother arranged them in a novel bouquet--a bouquet of wild flowers, the +base of it yellow primroses, the apex of pink shepherd's sundials, and +between the base and the apex one of the greatest variety of wild +flowers ever gotten together in that part of the world. + +It created a sensation and took first prize. At the close of the +exhibition Mrs. James Chaine distributed the prizes. When my name was +called I went forward slowly, blushing in my rags, and received a +twenty-four piece set of china! It gave me a fit! I took it home, put it +in her lap and danced. We held open house for a week, so that every man, +woman and child in the community could come in and "handle" it. + +Withero said we ought to save up and build a house to keep it in! + +She thought that a propitious time to explain the inscription she put on +the card. + +"Ah, thin," I said, "shure it's thrue what ye always say." + +"What's that, dear?" + +"It's nice t' be nice." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY + + +Jamie and Anna kept the Sabbath. It was a habit with them and the +children got it, one after another, as they came along. When the town +clock struck twelve on Saturday night the week's work was done. The +customers were given fair warning that at the hour of midnight the bench +would be put away until Monday morning. There was nothing theological +about the observance. It was a custom, not a code. Anna looked upon it +as an over-punctilious notion. More than once she was heard to say: "The +Sabbath was made for maan, Jamie, and not maan for th' Sabbath." His +answer had brevity and point. "I don't care a damn what it was made +for, Anna, I'll quit at twelve." And he quit. + +Sometimes Anna would take an unfinished job and finish it herself. There +were things in cobbling she could do as well as Jamie. Her defense of +doing it in the early hours of the Sabbath was: "Sure God has more +important work to do than to sit up late to watch us mend the boots of +the poor; forby it's better to haave ye're boots mended an' go to church +than to sit in th' ashes on Sunday an' swallow the smoke of bad turf!" + +"Aye," Jamie would say, "it's jist wondtherful what we can do if we +haave th' right kind ov a conscience!" + +Jamie's first duty on Sunday was to clean out the thrush's cage. He was +very proud of Dicky and gave him a bath every morning and a house +cleaning on Sunday. We children loved Sunday. On that day Anna reigned. +She wore her little shawl over her shoulders and her hair was enclosed +in a newly tallied white cap. She smoked little, but on Sundays after +dinner she always had her "dhraw" with Jamie. Anna's Sunday chore was to +whitewash the hearthstones and clean the house. When the table was laid +for Sunday breakfast and the kettle hung on the chain singing and Anna +was in her glory of white linen, the children were supremely happy. In +their wildest dreams there was nothing quite as beautiful as that. +Whatever hunger, disappointment, or petty quarrel happened during the +week it was forgotten on Sunday. It was a day of supreme peace. + +Sunday breakfast was what she called a "puttiby," something light to +tide them over until dinner time. Dinner was the big meal of the week. +At every meal I sat beside my mother. If we had stir-about, I was +favored, but not enough to arouse jealousy: I scraped the pot. If it was +"tay," I got a few bits of the crust of Anna's bread. We called it +"scroof." + +About ten o'clock the preparations for the big dinner began. We had meat +once a week. At least it was the plan to have it so often. Of course +there were times when the plan didn't work, but when it did Sunday was +meat day. The word "meat" was never used. It was "kitchen" or "beef." +Both words meant the same thing, and bacon might be meant by either of +them. + +In nine cases out of ten, Sunday "kitchen" was a cow's head, a "calf's +head and pluck," a pair of cow's feet, a few sheep's "trotters" or a +quart of sheep's blood. Sometimes it was the entrails of a pig. Only +when there was no money for "kitchen" did we have blood. It was at first +fried and then made part of the broth. + +The broth-pot on Sunday was the center. The economic status of a family +could be as easily gaged by tasting their broth as by counting the +weekly income. Big money, good broth; little money, thin broth. The +slimmer the resource the fewer the ingredients. The pot was an index to +every condition and the talisman of every family. It was an opportunity +to show off. When Jamie donned a "dickey" once to attend a funeral and +came home with it in his pocket, no comment was made; but if Anna made +poor broth it was the talk of the entry for a week. + +Good broth consisted of "kitchen," barley, greens and lithing. Next to +"kitchen" barley was the most expensive ingredient. Folks in Pogue's +entry didn't always have it, but there were a number of cheap +substitutes, such as hard peas or horse beans. Amongst half a dozen +families in and around the entry there was a broth exchange. Each family +made a few extra quarts and exchanged them. They were distributed in +quart tin cans. Each can was emptied, washed, refilled and returned. Ann +O'Hare, the chimneysweep's wife, was usually first on hand. She had the +unenviable reputation of being the "dhirtiest craither" in the +community. Jamie called her "Sooty Ann." + +"There's a gey good smell from yer pot, Anna," she said; "what haave ye +in it th' day?" + +"Oh, jist a few sheep's throtters and a wheen of nettles." + +"Who gethered th' nettles?" + +Anna pointed to me. + +"Did th' sting bad, me baughal?" + +"Ded no, not aany," I said. + +"Did ye squeeze thim tight?" + +"I put m' Dah's socks on m' han's." + +"Aye, that's a good thrick." + +Anna had a mouth that looked like a torn pocket. She could pucker it +into the queerest shapes. She smacked her thin blue lips, puckered her +mouth a number of times while Anna emptied and refilled the can. + +"If this is as good as it smells," she said as she went out, "I'll jist +sup it myself and let oul Billy go chase himself!" + +Jamie was the family connoisseur in matters relating to broth. He tasted +Ann's. The family waited for the verdict. + +"Purty good barley an' lithin'," he said, "but it smells like Billy's +oul boots." + +"Shame on ye, Jamie," Anna said. + +"Well, give us your highfalutin' opinion ov it!" Anna sipped a spoonful +and remarked: "It might be worse." + +"Aye, it's worse where there's nown, but on yer oath now d'ye think +Sooty Ann washed her han's?" + +"Good clane dhirt will poison no one, Jamie." + +"Thrue, but this isn't clane dhirt, it's soot--bitther soot!" + +It was agreed to pass the O'Hare delection. When it cooled I quietly +gave it to my friend Rover--Mrs. Lorimer's dog. + +Hen Cassidy came next. Hen's mother was a widow who lived on the edge of +want. Hen and I did a little barter and exchange on the side, while Anna +emptied and refilled his can. He had scarcely gone when the verdict was +rendered: + +"Bacon an' nettles," Jamie said, "she's as hard up as we are, this +week!" + +"Poor craither," Anna said; "I wondther if she's got aanything besides +broth?" Nobody knew. Anna thought she knew a way to find out. + +"Haave ye aany marbles, dear?" she asked me. + +"Aye, a wheen." + +"Wud ye give a wheen to me?" + +"Aye, are ye goin' t' shoot awhile? If ye are I'll give ye half an' +shoot ye fur thim!" I said. + +"No, I jist want t' borra some." I handed out a handful of marbles. + +"Now don't glunch, dear, when I tell ye what I want thim fur." I +promised. + +"Whistle fur Hen," she said, "and give him that han'ful of marbles if +he'll tell ye what his mother haas fur dinner th' day." + +I whistled and Hen responded. + +"I'll bate ye two chanies, Hen, that I know what ye've got fur dinner!" + +"I'll bate ye!" said Hen, "show yer chanies!" + +"Show yours!" said I. + +Hen had none, but I volunteered to trust him. + +"Go on now, guess!" said he. + +"Pirtas an' broth!" said I. + +"Yer blinked, ye cabbage head, we've got two yards ov thripe forby!" + +I carried two quarts to as many neighbors. Mary carried three. As they +were settling down to dinner Arthur Gainer arrived with his mother's +contribution. Jamie sampled it and laughed outright. + +"An oul cow put 'er feet in it," he said. Anna took a taste. + +"She didn't keep it in long aither," was her comment. + +"D'ye iver mind seein' barley in Gainer's broth?" Jamie asked. + +"I haave no recollection." + +"If there isn't a kink in m' power of remembrance," Jamie said, "they've +had nothin' but bacon an' nettles since th' big famine." + +"What did th' haave before that?" Anna asked. + +"Bacon an' nettles," he said. + +"Did ye ever think, Jamie, how like folks are to th' broth they make?" + +"No," he said, "but there's no raisin why people should sting jist +because they've got nothin' but nettles in their broth!" + +The potatoes were emptied out of the pot on the bare table, my father +encircling it with his arms to prevent them from rolling off. A little +pile of salt was placed beside each person and each had a big bowl full +of broth. The different kinds had lost their identity in the common pot. + +In the midst of the meal came visitors. + +"Much good may it do ye!" said Billy Baxter as he walked in with his +hands in his pockets. + +"Thank ye, Billy, haave a good bowl of broth?" + +"Thank ye, thank ye," he said. "I don't mind a good bowl ov broth, Anna, +but I'd prefer a bowl--jist a bowl of good broth!" + +"Ye've had larks for breakvist surely, haaven't ye, Billy?" Anna said. + +"No, I didn't, but there's a famine of good broth these days. When I was +young we had the rale McKie!" Billy took a bowl, nevertheless, and went +to Jamie's bench to "sup" it. + +Eliza Wallace, the fish woman, came in. + +"Much good may it do ye," she said. + +"Thank ye kindly, 'Liza, sit down an' haave a bowl of broth!" It was +baled out and Eliza sat down on the floor near the window. + +McGrath, the rag man, "dhrapped in." "Much good may it do ye!" he said. + +"Thank ye kindly, Tom," Anna said, "ye'll surely have a bowl ov broth." + +"Jist wan spoonful," McGrath said. I emptied my bowl at a nod from Anna, +rinsed it out at the tub and filled it with broth. McGrath sat on the +doorstep. + +After the dinner Anna read a story from the _Weekly Budget_ and the +family and guests sat around and listened. Then came the weekly +function, over which there invariably arose an altercation amongst the +children. It was the Sunday visit of the Methodist tract +distributor--Miss Clarke. It was not an unmixed dread, for sometimes she +brought a good story and the family enjoyed it. The usual row took place +as to who should go to the door and return the tract. It was finally +decided that I should face the ordeal. My preparation was to wash my +feet, rake my hair into order and soap it down, cover up a few holes and +await the gentle knock on the doorpost. It came and I bounded to the +door, tract in hand. + +"Good afternoon," she began, "did your mother read the tract this week?" + +"Yis, mem, an' she says it's fine." + +"Do you remember the name of it?" + +"'Get yer own Cherries,'" said I. + +"_B-u-y_," came the correction in clear tones from behind the partition. + +"'_Buy_ yer own Cherries,' it is, mem." + +"That's better," the lady said. "Some people _get_ cherries, other people +_buy_ them." + +"Aye." + +I never bought any. I knew every wild-cherry tree within twenty miles of +Antrim. The lady saw an opening and went in. "Did you ever get caught?" +she asked. I hung my head. Then followed a brief lecture on private +property--brief, for it was cut short by Anna, who, without any apology +or introduction, said as she confronted the slum evangel: + +"Is God our Father?" + +"Yes, indeed," the lady answered. + +"An' we are all His childther?" + +"Assuredly." + +"Would ye starve yer brother Tom?" + +"Of course not." + +"But ye don't mind s' much th' starvation of all yer other wee brothers +an' sisters on th' streets, do ye?" + +There was a commotion behind the paper partition. The group stood in +breathless silence until the hunger question was put, then they +"dunched" each other and made faces. My father took a handful of my +hair, and gave it a good-natured but vigorous tug to prevent an +explosion. + +"Oh, Anna!" she said, "you are mistaken; I would starve nobody--and far +be it from me to accuse--" + +"Accuse," said Anna, raising her gentle voice. "Why, acushla, nobody +needs t' accuse th' poor; th' guilty need no accuser. We're convicted by +bein' poor, by bein' born poor an' dying poor, aren't we now?" + +"With the Lord there is neither rich nor poor, Anna." + +"Aye, an' that's no news to me, but with good folks like you it's +different." + +"No, indeed, I assure you I think that exactly." + +"Well, now, if it makes no diff'rence, dear, why do ye come down Pogue's +entry like a bailiff or a process-sarver?" + +"I didn't, I just hinted--" + +"Aye, ye hinted an' a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Now tell +me truly an' cross yer heart--wud ye go to Ballycraigie doore an' talk +t' wee Willie Chaine as ye talked t' my bhoy jist now?" + +"No--" + +"No, 'deed ye wudn't for th' wudn't let ye, but because we've no choice +ye come down here like a petty sessions-magistrate an' make my bhoy feel +like a thief because he goes like a crow an' picks a wild cherry or a +sloe that wud rot on the tree. D'ye know Luke thirteen an' nineteen?" + +The lady opened her Bible, but before she found the passage Anna was +reading from her old yellow backless Bible about the birds that lodged +in the branches of the trees. + +"Did they pay aany rent?" she asked as she closed the book. "Did th' +foxes have leases fur their holes?" + +"No." + +"No, indeed, an' d'ye think He cares less fur boys than birds?" + +"Oh, no." + +"Oh, no, an' ye know rightly that everything aroun' Antrim is jist a +demesne full o' pheasants an' rabbits for them quality t' shoot, an' we +git thransported if we get a male whin we're hungry!" + +The lady was tender-hearted and full of sympathy, but she hadn't +traveled along the same road as Anna and didn't know. Behind the screen +the group was jubilant, but when they saw the sympathy on the tract +woman's face they sobered and looked sad. + +"I must go," she said, "and God bless you, Anna," and Anna replied, "God +bless you kindly, dear." + +When Anna went behind the screen Jamie grabbed her and pressed her +closely to him. "Ye're a match for John Rae any day, ye are that, +woman!" + +The kettle was lowered to the burning turf and there was a round of tea. +The children and visitors sat on the floor. + +"Now that ye're in sich fine fettle, Anna," Jamie said, "jist toss th' +cups for us!" + +She took her own cup, gave it a peculiar twist and placed it mouth down +on the saucer. Then she took it up and examined it quizzically. The +leaves straggled hieroglyphically over the inside. The group got their +heads together and looked with serious faces at the cup. + +"There's a ship comin' across th' sea--an' I see a letther!" + +"It's for me, I'll bate," Jamie said. + +"No, dear, it's fur me." + +"Take it," Jamie said, "it's maybe a dispossess from oul Savage th' +landlord!" + +She took Jamie's cup. + +"There's a wee bit of a garden wi' a fence aroun' it." + +"Wud that be Savage givin' us a bit of groun' next year t' raise +pirtas?" + +"Maybe." + +"Maybe we're goin' t' flit, where there's a perch or two wi' th' house!" + +A low whistle outside attracted my attention and I stole quietly away. +It was Sonny Johnson, the baker's son, and he had a little bundle under +his arm. We boys were discussing a very serious proposition when Anna +appeared on the scene. + +"Morra, Sonny!" + +"Morra, Anna!" + +"Aany day but Sunday he may go, dear, but not th' day." + +That was all that was needed. Sonny wanted me to take him bird-nesting. +He had the price in the bundle. + +"If I give ye this _now_," he said, "will ye come some other day fur +nothin'?" + +"Aye." + +In the bundle was a "bap"--a diamond-shaped, flat, penny piece of bread. +I rejoined the cup-tossers. + +Another whistle. "That's Arthur," Anna said. "No shinny th' day, mind +ye." + +I joined Arthur and we sat on the wall of Gainer's pigsty. We hadn't +been there long when "Chisty" McDowell, the superintendent of the +Methodist Sunday School, was seen over in Scott's garden rounding up his +scholars. We were in his line of vision and he made for us. We saw him +coming and hid in the inner sanctum of the sty. The pig was in the +little outer yard. "Chisty" was a wiry little man of great zeal but +little humor. It was his minor talent that came into play on this +occasion, however. + +"Come, boys, come," he said, "I know ye're in there. We've got a +beautiful lesson to-day." We crouched in a corner, still silent. + +"Come, boys," he urged, "don't keep me waiting. The lesson is about the +Prodigal Son." + +"Say somethin', Arthur," I urged. He did. + +"T' hell wi' the Prodigal Son!" he said, whereupon the little man jumped +the low wall into the outer yard and drove the big, grunting, wallowing +sow in on top of us! Our yells could be heard a mile away. We came out +and were collared and taken off to Sunday School. + +When I returned, the cups were all tossed and the visitors had gone, but +Willie Withero had dropped in and was invited to "stap" for tea. He was +our most welcome visitor and there was but one house where he felt at +home. + +"Tay" that evening consisted of "stir-about," Sonny Johnson's unearned +bap and buttermilk. Willie made more noise "suppin'" his stir-about than +Jamie did, and I said: + +"Did ye iver hear ov th' cow that got her foot stuck in a bog, Willie?" + +"No, boy, what did she do?" + +"She got it out!" A stern look from Jamie prevented the application. + +"Tell me, Willie," Anna said, "is it thrue that ye can blink a cow so +that she can give no milk at all?" + +"It's jist a hoax, Anna, some oul bitch said it an' th' others cackle it +from doore to doore. I've naither wife nor wain, chick nor chile, I ate +th' bread ov loneliness an' keep m' own company an' jist bekase I don't +blether wi' th' gossoons th' think I'm uncanny. Isn't that it, Jamie, +eh!" + +"Aye, ye're right, Willie, it's quare what bletherin' fools there are in +this town!" + +Willie held his full spoon in front of his mouth while he replied: + +"It's you that's the dacent maan, Jamie, 'deed it is." + +"The crocks are empty, dear," Anna said to me. After "tay," to the town +well I went for the night's supply of water. When I returned the dishes +were washed and on the dresser. The floor was swept and the family were +swappin' stories with Withero. Sunday was ever the day of Broth and +Romance. Anna made the best broth and told the best stories. No Sunday +was complete without a good story. On the doorstep that night she told +one of her best. As she finished the church bell tolled the curfew. Then +the days of the month were tolled off. + +"Sammy's arm is gey shtrong th' night," Willie said. + +"Aye," Jamie said, "an' th' oul bell's got a fine ring." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED + + +When Anna had to choose between love and religion--the religion of an +institution--she chose love. Her faith in God remained unshaken, but her +methods of approach were the forms of love rather than the symbols or +ceremonies of a sect. Twelve times in a quarter of a century she +appeared publicly in the parish church. Each time it was to lay on the +altar of religion the fruit of her love. Nine-tenths of those twelve +congregations would not have known her if they had met her on the +street. One-tenth were those who occupied the charity pews. + +Religion in our town had arrayed the inhabitants into two hostile camps. +She never had any sympathy with the fight. She was neutral. She pointed +out to the fanatics around her that the basis of religion was love and +that religion that expressed itself in faction fights must have hate at +the bottom of it, not love. She had a philosophy of religion that +_worked_. To the sects it would have been rank heresy, but the sects +didn't know she existed and those who were benefited by her quaint and +unique application of religion to life were almost as obscure as she +was. I was the first to discover her "heresy" and oppose it. She lived +to see me repent of my folly. + +In a town of two thousand people less than two hundred were familiar +with her face, and half of them knew her because at one time or another +they had been to "Jamie's" to have their shoes made or mended, or +because they lived in our immediate vicinity. Of the hundred who knew +her face, less than half of them were familiar enough to call her +"Anna." Of all the people who had lived in Antrim as long as she had, +she was the least known. + +No feast or function could budge her out of her corner. There came a +time when her family became as accustomed to her refusal as she had to +her environment and we ceased to coax or urge her. She never attended a +picnic, a soirée or a dance in Antrim. One big opportunity for social +intercourse amongst the poor is a wake--she never attended a wake. She +often took entire charge of a wake for a neighbor, but she directed the +affair from her corner. + +She had a slim sort of acquaintance with three intellectual men. They +were John Galt, William Green and John Gordon Holmes, vicars in that +order of the parish of Antrim. They visited her once a year and at +funerals--the funerals of her own dead. None of them knew her. They +hadn't time, but there were members of our own family who knew as little +of her mind as they did. + +She did not seek obscurity. It seemed to have sought and found her. One +avenue of escape after another was closed and she settled down at last +to her lot in the chimney-corner. Her hopes, beliefs and aspirations +were expressed in what she did rather than in what she said, though she +said much, much that is still treasured, long after she has passed away. + +Henry Lecky was a young fisherman on Lough Neagh. He was a great +favorite with the children of the entries. He loved to bring us a small +trout each when he returned after a long fishing trip. He died suddenly, +and Eliza, his mother, came at once for help to the chimney corner. + +"He's gone, Anna, he's gone!" she said as she dropped on the floor +beside Anna. + +"An' ye want me t' do for yer dead what ye'd do for mine, 'Liza?" + +"Aye, aye, Anna, yer God's angel to yer frien's." + +"Go an' fetch 'Liza Conlon, Jane Burrows and Marget Houston!" was Anna's +order to Jamie. + +The women came at once. The plan was outlined, the labor apportioned and +they went to work. Jamie went for the carpenter and hired William Gainer +to dig the grave. Eliza Conlon made the shroud, Jane Burrows and Anna +washed and laid out the corpse, and Mrs. Houston kept Eliza in Anna's +bed until the preliminaries for the wake were completed. + +"Ye can go now, Mrs. Houston," Anna said, "an' I'll mind 'Liza." + +"The light's gone out o' m' home an' darkness fills m' heart, Anna, an' +it's the sun that'll shine for m' no more! Ochone, ochone!" + +"'Liza dear, I've been where ye are now, too often not t' know that +aanything that aanybody says is jist like spittin' at a burnin' house t' +put it out. Yer boy's gone--we can't bring 'im back. Fate's cut yer +heart in two an' oul Docther Time an' the care of God are about the only +shure cures goin'." + +"Cudn't the ministher help a little if he was here, Anna?" + +"If ye think so I'll get him, 'Liza!" + +"He might put th' love of God in me!" + +"Puttin' th' love of God in ye isn't like stuffin' yer mouth with a +pirta, 'Liza!" + +"That's so, it is, but he might thry, Anna!" + +"Well, ye'll haave 'im." + +Mr. Green came and gave 'Liza what consolation he could. He read the +appropriate prayer, repeated the customary words. He did it all in a +tender tone and departed. + +"Ye feel fine afther that, don't ye, 'Liza?" + +"Aye, but Henry's dead an' will no come back!" + +"Did ye expect Mr. Green t' bring 'im?" + +"No." + +"What did ye expect, 'Liza?" + +"I dunno." + +"Shure ye don't. Ye didn't expect aanything an' ye got jist what ye +expected. Ah, wuman, God isn't a printed book t' be carried aroun' b' a +man in fine clothes, nor a gold cross t' be danglin' at the watch chain +ov a priest." + +"What is he, Anna, yer wiser nor me; tell a poor craither in throuble, +do!" + +"If ye'll lie very quiet, 'Liza--jist cross yer hands and listen--if ye +do, I'll thry!" + +"Aye, bless ye, I'll blirt no more; go on!" + +"Wee Henry is over there in his shroud, isn't he?" + +"Aye, God rest his soul." + +"He'll rest Henry's, 'Liza, but He'll haave the divil's own job wi' +yours if ye don't help 'im." + +"Och, aye, thin I'll be at pace." + +"As I was sayin', Henry's body is jist as it was yesterday, han's, legs, +heart an' head, aren't they?" + +"Aye, 'cept cold an' stiff." + +"What's missin' then?" + +"His blessed soul, God love it." + +"That's right. Now when the spirit laves th' body we say th' body's +dead, but it's jist a partnership gone broke, wan goes up an' wan goes +down. I've always thot that kissin' a corpse was like kissin' a cage +whin the bird's dead--_there's nothin' in it_. Now answer me this, 'Liza +Lecky: Is Henry a livin' spirit or a dead body?" + +"A livin' spirit, God prosper it." + +"Aye, an' God is th' same kind, but Henry's can be at but wan point at +once, while God's is everywhere at once. He's so big He can cover the +world an' so small He can get in be a crack in th' glass or a kayhole." + +"I've got four panes broke, Anna!" + +"Well, they're jist like four doores." + +"Feeries can come in that way too." + +"Aye, but feeries can't sew up a broken heart, acushla." + +"Where's Henry's soul, Anna?" Eliza asked, as if the said soul was a +naavy over whom Anna stood as gaffer. + +"It may be here at yer bedhead now, but yer more in need of knowin' +where God's Spirit is, 'Liza." + +Jamie entered with a cup of tea. + +"For a throubled heart," he said, "there's nothin' in this world like a +rale good cup o' tay." + +"God bless ye kindly, Jamie, I've a sore heart an' I'm as dhry as a +whistle." + +"Now Jamie, put th' cups down on th' bed," Anna said, "an' then get out, +like a good bhoy!" + +"I want a crack wi' Anna, Jamie," Eliza said. + +"Well, ye'll go farther an' fare worse--she's a buffer at that!" + +Eliza sat up in bed while she drank the tea. When she drained her cup +she handed it over to Anna. + +"Toss it, Anna, maybe there's good luck in it fur me." + +"No, dear, it's a hoax at best; jist now it wud be pure blasphemy. Ye +don't need luck, ye need at this minute th' help of God." + +"Och, aye, ye're right; jist talk t' me ov Him." + +"I was talkin' about His Spirit when Jamie came in." + +"Aye." + +"It comes in as many ways as there's need fur its comin', an' that's +quite a wheen." + +"God knows." + +"Ye'll haave t' be calm, dear, before He'd come t' ye in aany way." + +"Aye, but I'm at pace now, Anna, amn't I?" + +"Well, now, get out here an' get down on th' floor on yer bare knees +and haave a talk wi' 'im." + +Eliza obeyed implicitly. Anna knelt beside her. + +"I don't know what t' say." + +"Say afther me," and Anna told of an empty home and a sore heart. When +she paused, Eliza groaned. + +"Now tell 'im to lay 'is hand on yer tired head in token that He's wi' +ye in yer disthress!" + +Even to a dull intellect like Eliza's the suggestion was startling. + +"Wud He do it, Anna?" + +"Well, jist ask 'im an' then wait an' see!" + +In faltering tones Eliza made her request and waited. As gently as falls +an autumn leaf Anna laid her hand on Eliza's head, held it there for a +moment and removed it. + +"Oh, oh, oh, He's done it, Anna, He's done it, glory be t' God, He's +done it!" + +"Rise up, dear," Anna said, "an' tell me about it." + +"There was a nice feelin' went down through me, Anna, an' th' han' was +jist like yours!" + +"The han' was mine, but it was God's too." + +Anna wiped her spectacles and took Eliza over close to the window while +she read a text of the Bible. "Listen, dear," Anna said, "God's arm is +not shortened." + +"Did ye think that an arm could be stretched from beyont th' clouds t' +Pogue's entry?" + +"Aye." + +"No, dear, but God takes a han' where ever He can find it and jist diz +what He likes wi' it. Sometimes He takes a bishop's and lays it on a +child's head in benediction, then He takes the han' of a dochter t' +relieve pain, th' han' of a mother t' guide her chile, an' sometimes He +takes th' han' of an aul craither like me t' give a bit comfort to a +neighbor. But they're all han's touch't be His Spirit, an' His Spirit is +everywhere lukin' fur han's to use." + +Eliza looked at her open-mouthed for a moment. + +"Tell me, Anna," she said, as she put her hands on her shoulders, "was +th' han' that bro't home trouts fur th' childther God's han' too?" + +"Aye, 'deed it was." + +"Oh, glory be t' God--thin I'm at pace--isn't it gran' t' think +on--isn't it now?" + +Eliza Conlon abruptly terminated the conversation by announcing that all +was ready for the wake. + +"Ah, but it's the purty corpse he is," she said, "--luks jist like +life!" The three women went over to the Lecky home. It was a one-room +place. The big bed stood in the corner. The corpse was "laid out" with +the hands clasped. + +The moment Eliza entered she rushed to the bed and fell on her knees +beside it. She was quiet, however, and after a moment's pause she raised +her head and laying a hand on the folded hands said: "Ah, han's ov God +t' be so cold an' still!" + +Anna stood beside her until she thought she had stayed long enough, then +led her gently away. From that moment Anna directed the wake and the +funeral from her chimney-corner. + +"Here's a basket ov flowers for Henry, Anna, the childther gethered thim +th' day," Maggie McKinstry said as she laid them down on the +hearthstones beside Anna. + +"Ye've got some time, Maggie?" + +"Oh, aye." + +"Make a chain ov them an' let it go all th' way aroun' th' body, they'll +look purty that way, don't ye think so?" + +"Illigant, indeed, to be shure! 'Deed I'll do it." And it was done. + +To Eliza Conlon was given the task of providing refreshments. I say +"task," for after the carpenter was paid for the coffin and Jamie Scott +for the hearse there was only six shillings left. + +"Get whey for th' childther," Anna said, and "childther" in this catalog +ran up into the twenties. + +For the older "childther" there was something from Mrs. Lorimer's public +house--something that was kept under cover and passed around late, and +later still diluted and passed around again. Concerning this item Anna +said: "Wather it well, dear, an' save their wits; they've got little +enough now, God save us all!" + +"Anna," said Sam Johnson, "I am told you have charge of Henry's wake. Is +there anything I can do?" + +Sam was the tall, imperious precentor of the Mill Row meeting-house. He +was also the chief baker of the town and "looked up to" in matters +relating to morals as well as loaves. + +"Mister Gwynn has promised t' read a chapther, Mister Johnson. He'll +read, maybe, the fourteenth of John. If he diz, tell him t' go aisy over +th' twelth verse an' explain that th' works He did can be done in Antrim +by any poor craither who's got th' Spirit." + +Sam straightened up to his full height and in measured words said: + +"Ye know, no doubt, Anna, that Misther Gwynn is a Churchman an' I'm a +Presbyterian. He wouldn't take kindly to a hint from a Mill Row maan, I +fear, especially on a disputed text." + +"Well, dear knows if there's aanything this oul world needs more than +another it's an undisputed text. Couldn't ye find us wan, Misther +Johnson?" + +"All texts are disputed," he said, "but there are texts not in dispute." + +"I think I could name wan at laste, Mister Johnson." + +"Maybe." + +"'Deed no, not maybe at all, but _sure-be_. Jamie dear, get m' th' Bible +if ye plaze." + +While Jamie got the Bible she wiped her glasses and complained in a +gentle voice about the "mortal pity of it" that texts were pins for +Christians to stick in each other's flesh. + +"Here it is," she said, "'Th' poor ye haave always with ye.'" + +"Aye," Sam said, "an' how true it is." + +"'Deed it's true, but who did He mane by 'ye'?" + +"Th' world, I suppose." + +"Not all th' world, by a spoonful, but a wheen of thim like Sandy +Somerville, who's got a signboard in front of his back that tells he +ates too much while the rest of us haave backbones that could as aisily +be felt before as behine!" + +"So that's what you call an _undisputed_ text?" + +She looked over the rim of her spectacles at him for a moment in +silence, and then said, slowly: + +"Ochane--w-e-l-l--tell Mister Gwynn t' read what he likes, it'll mane +th' same aanyway." + +Kitty Coyle came in. Henry and she were engaged. They had known each +other since childhood. Her eyes were red with weeping. Henry's mother +led her by the arm. + +"Anna, dear," Eliza said, "she needs ye as much as me. Give 'er a bit ov +comfort." + +They went into the little bedroom and the door was shut. Jamie stood as +sentry. + +When they came out young Johnny Murdock, Henry's chum, was sitting on +Jamie's workbench. + +"I want ye t' take good care of Kitty th' night, Johnny. Keep close t' +'er and when th' moon comes out take 'er down the garden t' get fresh +air. It'll be stuffy wi' all th' people an' the corpse in Lecky's." + +"Aye," he said, "I'll do all I can." To Kitty she said, "I've asked +Johnny t' keep gey close t' ye till it's all over, Kitty. Ye'll +understand." + +"Aye," Kitty said, "Henry loved 'im more'n aany maan on th' Lough!" + +"Had tay yit?" Willie Withero asked as he blundered in on the scene. + +"No, Willie, 'deed we haaven't thought ov it!" + +"Well, t' haave yer bowels think yer throat's cut isn't sauncy!" he +said. + +The fire was low and the kettle cold. + +"Here, Johnny," Withero said, "jist run over t' Farren's for a ha'p'orth +ov turf an' we'll haave a cup o' tay fur these folks who're workin' +overtime palaverin' about th' dead! Moses alive, wan corpse is enough +fur a week or two--don't kill us all entirely!" + +Shortly after midnight Anna went over to see how things were at the +wake. They told her of the singing of the children, of the beautiful +chapther by Misther Gwynn, and the "feelin'" by Graham Shannon. The whey +was sufficient and nearly everybody had "a dhrap o' th' craither" and a +bite of fadge. + +"Ah, Anna dear," Eliza said, "shure it's yerself that knows how t' make +a moi'ty go th' longest distance over dhry throats an' empty stomachs! +'Deed it was a revival an' a faste in wan, an' th' only pity is that +poor Henry cudn't enjoy it!" + +The candles were burned low in the sconces, the flowers around the +corpse had faded, a few tongues, loosened by stimulation, were still +wagging, but the laughter had died down and the stories were all told. +There had been a hair-raising ghost story that had sent a dozen home +before the _respectable_ time of departure. The empty stools had been +carried outside and were largely occupied by lovers. + +Anna drew Eliza's head to her breast and pressing it gently to her said, +"I'm proud of ye, dear, ye've borne up bravely! Now I'm goin' t' haave +a few winks in th' corner, for there'll be much to do th' morra." + +Scarcely had the words died on her lips when Kitty Coyle gave vent to a +scream of terror that brought the mourners to the door and terrified +those outside. + +"What ails ye, in th' name of God?" Anna asked. She was too terrified to +speak at once. The mourners crowded closely together. + +"Watch!" Kitty said as she pointed with her finger toward Conlon's +pigsty. Johnny Murdock had his arm around Kitty's waist to keep her +steady and assure her of protection. They watched and waited. It was a +bright moonlight night, and save for the deep shadows of the houses and +hedges as clear as day. Tensely nerve-strung, open-mouthed and wild-eyed +stood the group for what seemed to them hours. In a few minutes a white +figure was seen emerging from the pigsty. The watchers were transfixed +in terror. Most of them clutched at each other nervously. Old Mrs. +Houston, the midwife who had told the ghost story at the wake, dropped +in a heap. Peter Hannen and Jamie Wilson carried her indoors. + +The white figure stood on the pathway leading through the gardens for a +moment and then returned to the sty. Most of the watchers fled to their +homes. Some didn't move because they had lost the power to do so. Others +just stood. + +"It's a hoax an' a joke," Anna said. "Now wan of you men go down there +an' see!" + +No one moved. Every eye was fixed on the pigsty. A long-drawn-out, +mournful cry was heard. It was all that tradition had described as the +cry of the Banshee. + +"The Banshee it is! Ah, merciful God, which ov us is t' b' tuk, I +wondther?" It was Eliza who spoke, and she continued, directing her +talk to Anna, "An' it's th' long arm ov th' Almighty it is raychin' down +t' give us a warnin', don't ye think so now, Anna?" + +"If it's wan arm of God, I know where th' other is, 'Liza!" Addressing +the terror-stricken watchers, Anna said: + +"Stand here, don't budge, wan of ye!" + +Along the sides of the houses in the deep shadow Anna walked until she +got to the end of the row; just around the corner stood the sty. In the +shadow she stood with her back to the wall and waited. The watchers were +breathless and what they saw a minute later gave them a syncope of the +heart that they never forgot. They saw the white figure emerge again and +they saw Anna stealthily approach and enter into what they thought was a +struggle with it. They gasped when they saw her a moment later bring the +white figure along with her. As she came nearer it looked limp and +pliable, for it hung over her arm. + +"It's that divil, Ben Green!" she said as she threw a white sheet at +their feet. + +"Hell roast 'im on a brandther!" said one. + +"The divil gut 'im like a herrin'!" said another. Four of the younger +men, having been shamed by their own cowardice, made a raid on the sty, +and next day when Ben came to the funeral he looked very much the worse +for wear. + +Ben was a friend of Henry's and a good deal of a practical joker. Anna +heard of what happened and she directed that he be one of the four men +to lower the coffin into the grave, as a moiety of consolation. Johnny +Murdock made strenuous objections to this. + +"Why?" Anna asked. + +"Bekase," he said, "shure th' divil nearly kilt Kitty be th' fright!" + +"But she was purty comfortable th' rest of th' time?" + +"Oh, aye." + +"Ye lifted a gey big burden from 'er heart last night, didn't ye, +Johnny?" + +"Aye; an' if ye won't let on I'll tell ye, Anna." He came close and +whispered into her ear: "Am goin' t' thry danged hard t' take th' heart +as well as th' throuble!" + +"What diz Kitty think?" + +"She's switherin'." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON + + +Anna was an epistle to Pogue's entry and my only excuse for dragging +Hughie Thornton into this narrative is that he was a commentary on Anna. +He was only once in our house, but that was an "occasion," and for many +years we dated things that happened about that time as "about," "before" +or "after" "the night Hughie stayed in the pigsty." + +We lived in the social cellar; Hughie led a precarious existence in the +_sub-cellar_. He was the beggar-man of several towns, of which Antrim +was the largest. He was a short, thick-set man with a pock-marked face, +eyes like a mouse, eyebrows that looked like well-worn scrubbing +brushes, and a beard cropped close with scissors or a knife. He wore two +coats, two pairs of trousers and several waistcoats--all at the same +time, winter and summer. His old battered hat looked like a crow's nest. +His wardrobe was so elaborately patched that practically nothing at all +of the originals remained; even then patches of his old, withered skin +could be seen at various angles. The thing that attracted my attention +more than anything else about him was his pockets. He had dozens of them +and they were always full of bread crusts, scraps of meat and cooking +utensils, for like a snail he carried his domicile on his back. His +boots looked as if a blacksmith had made them, and for whangs (laces) he +used strong wire. + +He was preëminently a citizen of the world. He had not lived in a house +in half a century. A haystack in summer and a pigsty in winter sufficed +him. He had a deep graphophone voice and when he spoke the sound was +like the creaking of a barn door on rusty hinges. When he came to town +he was to us what a circus is to boys of more highly favored +communities. There were several interpretations of Hughie. One was that +he was a "sent back." That is, he had gone to the gates of a less +cumbersome life and Peter or the porter at the other gate had sent him +back to perform some unfulfilled task. Another was that he was a +nobleman of an ancient line who was wandering over the earth in disguise +in search of the Grail. A third, and the most popular one, was that he +was just a common beggar and an unmitigated liar. The second +interpretation was made more plausible by the fact that he rather +enjoyed his reputation as a liar, for wise ones said: "He's jist lettin' +on." + +On one of his semi-annual visits to Antrim, Hughie got into a barrel of +trouble. He was charged--rumor charged him--with having blinked a +widow's cow. It was noised abroad that he had been caught in the act of +"skellyin'" at her. The story gathered in volume as it went from mouth +to mouth until it crystallized as a crime in the minds of half a dozen +of our toughest citizens--boys who hankered for excitement as a hungry +stomach hankers for food. He was finally rounded up in a field adjoining +the Mill Row meeting-house and pelted with stones. I was of the +"gallery" that watched the fun. I watched until a track of blood +streaked down Hughie's pock-marked face. Then I ran home and told Anna. + +"Ma!" I yelled breathlessly, "they're killin' Hughie Thornton!" + +Jamie threw his work down and accompanied Anna over the little garden +patches to the wall that protected the field. Through the gap they went +and found poor Hughie in bad shape. He was crying and he cried like a +brass band. His head and face had been cut in several places and his +face and clothes were red. + +They brought him home. A crowd followed and filled Pogue's entry, a +crowd that was about equally divided in sentiment against Hughie and +against the toughs. + +I borrowed a can of water from Mrs. McGrath and another from the Gainers +and Anna washed old Hughie's wounds in Jamie's tub. It was a great +operation. Hughie of course refused to divest himself of any clothing, +and as she said afterwards it was like "dhressin' th' woonds of a +haystack." + +One of my older brothers came home and cleared the entry, and we sat +down to our stir-about and buttermilk. An extra cup of good hot strong +tea was the finishing touch to the Samaritan act. Jamie had scant +sympathy with the beggar-man. He had always called him hard names in +language not lawful to utter, and even in this critical exigency was not +over tender. Anna saw a human need and tried to supply it. + +"Did ye blink th' cow?" Jamie asked as we sat around the candle after +supper. + +"Divil a blink," said Hughie. + +"What did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur?" was the next question. + +"I was fixin' m' galluses, over Crawford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked +over an' says, says he: + +"'Morra, Hughie!' + +"'Morra, bhoy!' says I. + +"'Luks like snow,' says he (it was in July). + +"'Aye,' says I, 'we're goin' t' haave more weather; th' sky's in a bad +art'" (direction). + +Anna arose, put her little Sunday shawl around her shoulders, tightened +the strings of her cap under her chin and went out. We gasped with +astonishment! What on earth could she be going out for? She never went +out at night. Everybody came to her. There was something so mysterious +in that sudden exit that we just looked at our guest without +understanding a word he said. + +Jamie opened up another line of inquiry. + +"Th' say yer a terrible liar, Hughie." + +"I am that," Hughie said without the slightest hesitation. "I'm th' +champ'yun liar ov County Anthrim." + +"How did ye get th' belt?" + +"Aisy, as aisy as tellin' th' thruth." + +"That's harder nor ye think." + +"So's lyin', Jamie!" + +"Tell us how ye won th' champ'yunship." + +"Whin I finish this dhraw." + +He took a live coal and stoked up the bowl of his old cutty-pipe. The +smacking of his lips could have been heard at the mouth of Pogue's +entry. We waited with breathless interest. When he had finished he +knocked the ashes out on the toe of his brogue and talked for nearly an +hour of the great event in which he covered himself with glory. + +It was a fierce encounter according to Hughie, the then champion being a +Ballymena man by the name of Jack Rooney. Jack and a bunch of vagabonds +sat on a stone pile near Ballyclare when Hughie hove in sight. The +beggar-man was at once challenged to divest himself of half his clothes +or enter the contest. He entered, with the result that Ballymena lost +the championship! The concluding round as Hughie recited it was as +follows: + +"I dhruv a nail throo th' moon wanst," said Jack. + +"Ye did, did ye," said Hughie, "but did ye iver hear ov the maan that +climbed up over th' clouds wid a hammer in his han' an' clinched it on +th' other side?" + +"No," said the champion. + +"I'm him!" said Hughie. + +"I'm bate!" said Jack Rooney, "an' begobs if I wor St. Peether I'd kape +ye outside th' gate till ye tuk it out agin!" + +Anna returned with a blanket rolled up under her arm. She gave Hughie +his choice between sleeping in Jamie's corner among the lasts or +occupying the pigsty. He chose the pigsty, but before he retired I +begged Anna to ask him about the Banshee. + +"Did ye ever really see a Banshee, Hughie?" + +"Is there aanythin' a champ'yun liar haasn't seen?" Jamie interrupted. + +"Aye," Hughie said, "'deed there is, he niver seen a maan who'd believe +'im even whin he was tellin' th' thruth!" + +"That's broth for your noggin', Jamie," Anna said. Encouraged by Anna, +Hughie came back with a thrust that increased Jamie's sympathy for him. + +"I'm undther yer roof an' beholdin' t' yer kindness, but I'd like t' ax +ye a civil quest'yun if I may be so bowld." + +"Aye, go on." + +"Did ye blow a farmer's brains out in th' famine fur a pint ov milk?" + +"It's a lie!" Jamie said, indignantly. + +"Well, me bhoy, there must b' quite a wheen, thrainin' fur me belt in +Anthrim!" + +"There's something in that, Hughie!" + +"Aye, somethin' Hughie Thornton didn't put in it!" + +We youngsters were irritated and impatient over what seemed to us +useless palaver about minor details. We wanted the story and wanted it +at once, for we understood that Hughie went to bed with the crows and we +stood in terror lest this huge bundle of pockets with its unearthly +voice should vanish into thin air. + +"D'ye know McShane?" he asked. + +"Aye, middlin'." + +"Ax 'im what Hughie Thornton towld 'im wan night be th' hour ov midnight +an' afther. Ax 'im, I say, an' he'll swear be th' Holy Virgin an' St. +Peether t' it!" + +"Jist tell us aanyway, Hughie," Anna urged and the beggar-man proceeded. + +"I was be th' oul Quaker graveyard be Moylena wan night whin th' shadows +fell an' bein' more tired than most I slipt in an' lay down be th' big +wall t' slape. I cros't m'self seven times an' says I--'God rest th' +sowls ov all here, an' God prosper th' sowl ov Hughie Thornton.' I wint +t' slape an' slept th' slape ov th' just till twelve be th' clock. I was +shuk out ov slape be a screech that waked th' dead! + +"Och, be th' powers, Jamie, me hair stud like th' brisels on O'Hara's +hog. I lukt and what m' eyes lukt upon froze me blood like icicles +hingin' frum th' thatch. It was a woman in a white shift, young an' +beautiful, wid hair stramin' down her back. She sat on th' wall wid her +head in her han's keenin' an' moanin': 'Ochone, ochone!' I thried to +spake but m' tongue cluv t' th' roof ov m' mouth. I thried t' move a +han' but it wudn't budge. M' legs an' feet wor as stiff and shtrait as +th' legs ov thim tongs in yer chimley. Och, but it's th' prackus I was +frum top t' toe! Dead intirely was I but fur th' eyes an' th' wit behint +thim. She ariz an' walked up an' down, back an' fort', up an' down, back +an' fort', keenin' an' cryin' an' wringin' her han's! Maan alive, didn't +she carry on terrible! Purty soon wid a yell she lept into the +graveyard, thin she lept on th' wall, thin I heerd her on th' road, +keenin'; an' iverywhere she wint wor long bars of light like sunbames +streamin' throo th' holes in a barn. Th' keenin' become waker an' waker +till it died down like the cheep ov a willy-wag-tail far off be the ind +ov th' road. + +"I got up an' ran like a red shank t' McShane's house. I dundthered at +his doore till he opened it, thin I towld him I'd seen th' Banshee! + +"'That bates Bannagher!' says he. + +"'It bates th' divil,' says I. 'But whose fur above th' night is what +I'd like t' know.' + +"'Oul Misther Chaine,' says he, 'as sure as gun's iron!'" + +The narrative stopped abruptly, stopped at McShane's door. + +"Did oul Misther Chaine die that night?" Anna asked. + +"Ax McShane!" was all the answer he gave and we were sent off to bed. + +Hughie was escorted to the pigsty with his blanket and candle. What +Jamie saw on the way to the pigsty made the perspiration stand in big +beads on his furrowed brow. Silhouetted against the sky were several +figures. Some were within a dozen yards, others were farther away. Two +sat on a low wall that divided the Adair and Mulholland gardens. They +were silent and motionless, but there was no mistake about it. He +directed Anna's attention to them and she made light of it. When they +returned to the house Jamie expressed fear for the life of the +beggar-man. Anna whispered something into his ear, for she knew that we +were wide-awake. They went into their room conversing in an undertone. + +The thing was so uncanny to me that it was three o'clock next morning +before I went to sleep. As early as six there was an unusual shuffling +and clattering of feet over the cobblestones in Pogue's entry. We knew +everybody in the entry by the sound of their footfall. The clatter was +by the feet of strangers. + +I "dunched" my brother, who lay beside me, with my elbow. + +"Go an' see if oul Hughie's livin' or dead," I said. + +"Ye cudn't kill 'im," he said. + +"How d'ye know?" + +"I heerd a quare story about 'im last night!" + +"Where?" + +"In th' barber's shop." + +"Is he a feerie?" + +"No." + +"What is he?" + +"Close yer thrap an' lie still!" + +Somebody opened the door and walked in. + +I slid into my clothes and climbed down. It was Withero. He shook Anna +and Jamie in their bed and asked in a loud voice: + +"What's all this palaver about an' oul throllop what niver earned salt +t' 'is pirtas?" + +"Go on t' yer stone pile, Willie," Anna said, as she sat up in bed; +"what ye don't know will save docther's bills." + +"If I catch m'self thinkin' aanythin' sauncy ov that aul haythen baste +I'll change m' name!" he said, as he turned and left in high dudgeon. + +When I got to the pigsty there were several early callers lounging +around. "Jowler" Hainey sat on a big stone near the slit. Mary +McConnaughy stood with her arms akimbo, within a yard of the door, and +Tommy Wilson was peeping into the sty through a knot-hole on the side. I +took my turn at the hole. Hughie had evidently been awakened early. He +was sitting arranging his pockets. Con Mulholland came down the entry +with his gun over his shoulder. He had just returned from his vigil as +night watchman at the Greens and was going the longest way around to his +home. + +He leaned his gun against the house side and lit his pipe. Then he +opened the sty door, softly, and said: + +"Morra, Hughie." + +"Morra, Con," came the answer, in calliope tones from our guest. + +"Haave ye a good stock ov tubacca?" Con asked Hughie. + +"I cud shtart a pipe shap, Con, fur be th' first strake ov dawn I found +five new pipes an' five half ounces ov tubacca inside th' doore ov th' +sty!" + +"Take this bit too. Avic, ye don't come ofen," and he gave him a small +package and took his departure. + +Eliza Conlon brought a cup of tea. Without even looking in, she pushed +the little door ajar, laid it just inside, and went away without a word. +Mulholland and Hainey seemed supremely concerned about the weather. From +all they said it was quite evident that each of them had "jist dhrapped +aroun' t' find out what Jamie thought ov th' prospects fur a fine day!" +Old Sandy Somerville came hatless and in his shirt-sleeves, his hands +deep in his pockets and his big watchchain dangling across what Anna +called the "front of his back." Sandy was some quality, too, and owned +three houses. + +"Did aany o' ye see my big orange cat?" he asked the callers. Without +waiting for an answer he opened the door of the pigsty and peeped in. + +By the time Hughie scrambled out there were a dozen men, women and boys +around the sty. As the beggar-man struggled up through his freight to +his feet the eyes of the crowd were scrutinizing him. Sandy shook hands +with him and wished him a pleasant journey. + +Hainey hoped he would live long and prosper. As he expressed the hope he +furtively stuffed into one of Hughie's pockets a small package. + +Anna came out and led Hughie into the house for breakfast. The little +crowd moved toward the door. On the doorstep she turned around and said: +"Hughie's goin' t' haave a cup an' a slice an' go. Ye can all see him in +a few minutes. Excuse me if I shut the doore, but Jamie's givin' the +thrush its mornin' bath an' it might fly out." + +She gently closed the door and we were again alone with the guest. + +"The luck ov God is m' portion here," he said, looking at Anna. + +Nothing was more evident. His pockets were taxed to their full capacity +and those who gathered around the table that morning wished that the +"luck of God" would spread a little. + +"Th' feeries must haave been t' see ye," Jamie said, eyeing his pockets. + +"Aye, gey sauncy feeries, too!" + +"Did ye see aany, Hughie?" Anna asked. + +"No, but I had a wondtherful dhrame." The announcement was a +disappointment to us. We had dreams of our own and to have right at our +fireside the one man in all the world who _saw_ things and get merely a +dream from him was, to say the least, discouraging. + +"I thocht I heer'd th' rat, tap; rat, tap, ov th' Lepracaun--th' feerie +shoemaker. + +"'Is that th' Lepracaun?' says I. 'If it is I want m' three wishes.' +'Get thim out,' says he, 'fur I'm gey busy th' night.' + +"'Soun' slape th' night an' safe journey th' morra,' says I. + +"'Get yer third out or I'm gone,' says he. + +"I scratched m' head an' swithered, but divil a third cud I think ov. +Jist as he was goin', 'Oh,' says I, 'I want a pig fur this sty!' + +"'Ye'll git him!' says he, an' off he wint." + +Here was something, after all, that gave us more excitement than a +Banshee story. We had a sty. We had hoped for years for a pig. We had +been forced often to use some of the sty for fuel, but in good times +Jamie had always replaced the boards. This was a real vision and we were +satisfied. Jamie's faith in Hughie soared high at the time, but a few +months later it fell to zero. Anna with a twinkle in her eye would +remind us of Hughie's prophecy. One day he wiped the vision off the +slate. + +"T' h--l wi' Hughie!" he said. "Some night he'll come back an' slape +there, thin we'll haave a pig in th' sty shure!" + +As he left our house that morning he was greeted in a most unusual +manner by a score of people who crowded the entry. Men and women +gathered around him. They inspected the wounds. They gave their blessing +in as many varieties as there were people present. The new attitude +toward the beggar baffled us. Generally he was considered a good deal of +a nuisance and something of a fraud, but that morning he was looked upon +as a saint--as one inspired, as one capable of bestowing benedictions on +the young and giving "luck" to the old. Out of their penury and want +they brought gifts of food, tobacco, cloth for patches and needles and +thread. He was overwhelmed and over-burdened, and as his mission of +gathering food for a few weeks was accomplished, he made for the town +head when he left the entry. + +The small crowd grew into a big one and he was the center of a throng +as he made his way north. When he reached the town well, Maggie +McKinstry had several small children in waiting and Hughie was asked to +give them a blessing. It was a new atmosphere to him, but he bungled +through it. The more unintelligible his jabbering, the more assured were +the recipients of his power to bless. One of the boys who stoned him was +brought by his father to ask forgiveness. + +"God save ye kindly," Hughie said to him. "Th' woonds ye made haave been +turned into blessin's galore!" He came in despised. He went out a saint. + +It proved to be Hughie's last visit to Antrim. His going out of life was +a mystery, and as the years went by tradition accorded him an exit not +unlike that of Moses. I was amongst those the current of whose lives +were supposed to have been changed by the touch of his hand on that last +visit. Anna alone knew the secret of his alleged sainthood. She was the +author and publisher of it. That night when she left us with Hughie she +gathered together in 'Liza Conlon's a few "hand-picked" people whose +minds were as an open book to her. She told them that the beggar-man was +of an ancient line, wandering the earth in search of the Holy Grail, but +that as he wandered he was recording in a secret book the deeds of the +poor. She knew exactly how the news would travel and where. One +superstition stoned him and another canonized him. + +"Dear," she said to me, many, many years afterwards. "A good thought +will thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if it gets th' right +start!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE + + +"It's a quare world," Jamie said one night as we sat in the glow of a +peat fire. + +"Aye, 'deed yer right, Jamie," Anna replied as she gazed into the +smokeless flames. + +He took his short black pipe out of his mouth, spat into the burning +sods and added: "I wondther if it's as quare t' everybody, Anna?" + +"Ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither +mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring." + +There had been but one job that day--a pair of McGuckin's boots. They +had been half-soled and heeled and my sister had taken them home, with +orders what to bring home for supper. + +The last handful of peat had been put on the fire. The cobbler's bench +had been put aside for the night and we gathered closely around the +hearth. + +The town clock struck eight. + +"What th' h--l's kapin' th' hussy!" Jamie said petulantly. + +"Hugh's at a Fenian meeting more 'n likely an' it's worth a black eye +for th' wife t' handle money when he's gone," Anna suggested. + +"More likely he's sleepin' off a dhrunk," he said. + +"No, Jamie, he laves that t' the craithers who give 'im a livin'." + +"Yer no judge o' human naiture, Anna. A squint out o' th' tail o' yer +eye at what McGuckin carries in front ov 'im wud tell ye betther if ye +had th' wits to obsarve." + +Over the fire hung a pot on the chain and close to the turf coals sat +the kettle singing. Nothing of that far-off life has left a more +lasting impression than the singing of the kettle. It sang a dirge that +night, but it usually sang of hope. It was ever the harbinger of the +thing that was most indispensable in that home of want--a cup of tea. +Often it was tea without milk, sometimes without sugar, but always tea. +If it came to a choice between tea and bread, we went without bread. + +Anna did not relish the reflection on her judgment and remained silent. + +There was a loud noise at the door. + +"Jazus!" Jamie exclaimed, "it's snowin'." Some one was kicking the snow +off against the door-post. The latch was lifted and in walked Felix +Boyle the bogman. + +"What th' blazes are ye in th' dark fur?" Felix asked in a deep, hoarse +voice. His old rabbit-skin cap was pulled down over his ears, his head +and shoulders were covered with snow. As he shook it off we shivered. +We were in debt to Felix for a load of turf and we suspected he had +called for the money. Anna lit the candle she was saving for +supper-time. The bogman threw his cap and overcoat over in the corner on +the lasts and sat down. + +"I'm frozen t' death!" he said as he proceeded to take off his brogues. +As he came up close to the coals, we were smitten with his foul breath +and in consequence gave him a wider berth. He had been drinking. + +"Where's th' mare?" Anna asked. + +"Gone home, th' bitch o' h--l," he said, "an' she's got m' load o' turf +wid 'er, bad cess t' 'er dhirty sowl!" + +The town clock struck nine. + +Felix removed his socks, pushed his stool aside and sat down on the mud +floor. A few minutes later he was flat on his back, fast asleep and +snoring loudly. + +The fire grew smaller. Anna husbanded the diminishing embers by keeping +them closely together with the long tongs. The wind howled and +screamed. The window rattled, the door creaked on its hinges and every +few minutes a gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the ashes into +our faces. We huddled nearer the fire. + +"Can't ye fix up that oul craither's head a bit?" Jamie asked. I brought +over the bogman's coat. Anna made a pillow of it and placed it under his +head. He turned over on his side. As he did so a handful of small change +rolled out of his pocket. + +"Think of that now," Jamie said as he gathered it up and stuffed it back +where it belonged, "an oul dhrunken turf dhriver wi' money t' waste +while we're starvin'." + +From that moment we were acutely hungry. + +This new incident rendered the condition poignant. + +"Maybe Mrs. Boyle an' th' wains are as hungry as we are," Anna +remarked. + +"Wi' a bogful o' turf at th' doore?" + +"Th' can't eat turf, Jamie!" + +"Th' can warm their shins, that's more'n we can do, in a minute or +two." + +The rapidly diminishing coals were arranged once more. They were a mere +handful now and the house was cold. + +There were two big holes in the chimney where Jamie kept old pipes, pipe +cleaners, bits of rags and scraps of tobacco. He liked to hide a scrap +or two there and in times of scarcity make himself believe he _found_ +them. His last puff of smoke had gone up the chimney hours ago. He +searched both holes without success. A bright idea struck him. He +searched for Boyle's pipe. He searched in vain. + +"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed, "what a breath; a pint ov that wud make a +mule dhrunk!" + +"Thry it, Jamie," Anna said, laughing. + +"Thry it yerself,--yer a good dale more ov a judge!" he said +snappishly. + +A wild gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the loose ashes off +the hearth. Jamie ensconced himself in his corner--a picture of despair. + +"I wondther if Billy O'Hare's in bed?" he said. + +"Ye'd need fumigatin' afther smokin' Billy's tobacco, Jamie!" + +"I'd smoke tobacco scraped out o' the breeches-pocket ov th' oul divil +in hell!" he replied. + +He arose, put on his muffler and made ready to visit the sweep. On the +way to the door another idea turned him back. He put on the bogman's +overcoat and rabbit-skin cap. Anna, divining his intention, said: + +"That's th' first sign of sense I've see in you for a month of Sundays." + +"Ye cudn't see it in a month ov Easther Sundays, aanyway," he retorted +with a superior toss of his head. + +Anna kept up a rapid fire of witty remarks. She injected humor into the +situation and laughed like a girl, and although she felt the pangs more +keenly than any of us, her laughter was genuine and natural. + +Jamie had his empty pipe in his mouth and by force of habit he picked up +in the tongs a little bit of live coal to light it. We all tittered. + +"Th' h--l!" he muttered, as he made for the door. Before he reached it +my sister walked in. McGuckin wasn't at home. His wife couldn't pay. We +saw the whole story on her face, every pang of it. Her eyes were red and +swollen. Before she got out a sentence of the tale of woe, she noticed +the old man in Boyle's clothing and burst out laughing. So hearty and +boisterous was it that we all again caught the contagion and laughed +with her. Sorrow was deep-seated. It had its roots away down at the +bottom of things, but laughter was always up near the surface and could +be tapped on the slightest provocation. It was a by-valve--a way of +escape for the overflow. There were times when sorrow was too deep for +tears. But there never was a time when we couldn't laugh! + +People in our town who expected visitors to knock provided a knocker. +The knocker was a distinct line of social demarcation. We lived below +the line. The minister and the tract distributor were the only persons +who ever knocked at our door. + +Scarcely had our laughter died away when the door opened and there +entered in the sweep of a blizzard's tail Billy O'Hare. The gust of cold +winter wind made us shiver again and we drew up closer to the dying +fire--so small now as to be seen with difficulty. + +"Be th' seven crosses ov Arbow, Jamie," he said, "I'm glad yer awake, me +bhoy, if ye hadn't I'd haave pulled ye out be th' tail ov yer shirt!" + +"I was jist within an ace ov goin' over an' pullin' ye out be th' heels +myself." + +The chimney-sweep stepped forward and, tapping Jamie on the forehead, +said: + +"Two great minds workin' on th' same thought shud projuce wondtherful +results, Jamie; lend me a chew ov tobacco!" + +"Ye've had larks for supper, Billy; yer jokin'!" Jamie said. + +"Larks be damned," Billy said, "m' tongue's stickin' t' th' roof ov me +mouth!" + +Again we laughed, while the two men stood looking at each +other--speechless. + +"Ye can do switherin' as easy sittin' as standin'," Anna said, and Billy +sat down. The bogman's story was repeated in minutest detail. The sweep +scratched his sooty head and looked wise. + +"It's gone!" Anna said quietly, and we all looked toward the fire. It +was dead. The last spark had been extinguished. We shivered. + +"We don't need so many stools aanyway," Jamie said. "I'll get a hatchet +an' we'll haave a fire in no time." + +"T' be freezin' t' death wi a bogman goin' t' waste is unchristian, t' +say th' laste," Billy ventured. + +"Every time we get to th' end of th' tether God appears!" Anna said +reassuringly, as she pinned her shawl closer around her neck. + +"There's nothin' but empty bowels and empty pipes in our house," the +sweep said, "but we've got half a dozen good turf left!" + +"Well, it's a long lane that's got no turnin'--ye might lend us thim," +Jamie suggested. + +"If ye'll excuse m' fur a minit, I'll warm this house, an' may the +Virgin choke m' in th' nixt chimley I sweep if I don't!" + +In a few minutes he returned with six black turf. The fire was rebuilt +and we basked in its warm white glow. The bogman snored on. Billy +inquired about the amount of his change. Then he became solicitous +about his comfort on the floor. Each suggestion was a furtive flank +movement on Boyle's loose change. + +Anna saw the bent of his mind and tried to divert his attention. + +"Did ye ever hear, Billy," she said, "that if we stand a dhrunk maan on +his head it sobers him?" + +"Be the powers, no." + +"They say," she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "that it empties him of +his contents." + +"Aye," sighed the sweep, "there's something in that, Anna; let's thry it +on Boyle." + +There was an element of excitement in the suggestion and we youngsters +hoped it would be carried out. Billy made a move to suit the action to +the thought, but Anna pushed him gently back. "Jamie's mouth is as +wathry as yours, Billy, but we'll take no short cuts, we'll go th' long +way around." + +That seemed a death-blow to hope. My sisters began to whimper and +sniffle. We had many devices for diverting hunger. The one always used +as a last resort was the stories of the "great famine." We were +particularly helped by one about a family half of whom died around a pot +of stir-about that had come too late. When we heard Jamie say, "Things +are purty bad, but they're not as bad as they might be," we knew a +famine story was on the way. + +"Hould yer horses there a minute!" Billy O'Hare broke in. He took the +step-ladder and before we knew what he was about he had taken a bunch of +dried rosemary from the roof-beams and was rubbing it in his hands as a +substitute for tobacco. + +After rubbing it between his hands he filled his pipe and began to puff +vigorously. + +"Wud ye luk at 'im!" Jamie exclaimed. + +"I've lived with th' mother ov invintion since I was th' size ov a +mushroom," he said between the puffs, "an begorra she's betther nor a +wife." The odor filled the house. It was like the sweet incense of a +censer. The men laughed and joked over the discovery. The sweep indulged +himself in some extravagant, self-laudatory statements, one of which +became a household word with us. + +"Jamie," he said as he removed his pipe and looked seriously at my +father, "who was that poltroon that discovered tobacco?" Anna informed +him. + +"What'll become ov 'im whin compared wid O'Hare, th' inventor of th' +rosemary delection? I ax ye, Jamie, bekase ye're an honest maan." + +"Heaven knows, Billy." + +"Aye, heaven only knows, fur I'll hand down t' m' future ancestors the +O'Hara brand ov rosemary tobacco!" + +"Wondtherful, wondtherful!" Jamie said, in mock solemnity. + +"Aye, t' think," Anna said, "that ye invinted it in our house!" + +We forgot our hunger pangs in the excitement. Jamie filled his pipe and +the two men smoked for a few minutes. Then a fly appeared in the +precious ointment. My father took his pipe out of his mouth and looked +inquisitively at Billy. + +"M' head's spinnin' 'round like a peerie!" he exclaimed. + +"Whin did ye ate aanything?" asked the sweep. + +"Yestherday." + +"Aye, well, it's th' mate ye haaven't in yer bowels that's makin' ye +feel quare." + +"What's th' matther wi th' invintor?" Anna asked. + +Billy had removed his pipe and was staring vacantly into space. + +"I'm seein' things two at a time, b' Jazus!" he answered. + +"We've got plenty of nothin' but wather, maybe ye'd like a good dhrink, +Billy?" + +Before he could reply the bogman raised himself to a half-sitting +posture, and yelled with all the power of his lungs: + +"Whoa! back, ye dhirty baste, back!" The wild yell chilled the blood in +our veins. + +He sat up, looked at the black figure of the sweep for a moment, then +made a spring at Billy, and before any one could interfere poor Billy +had been felled to the floor with a terrible smash on the jaw. Then he +jumped on him. We youngsters raised a howl that awoke the sleepers in +Pogue's entry. Jamie and Billy soon overpowered Boyle. When the +neighbors arrived they found O'Hare sitting on Boyle's neck and Jamie on +his legs. + +"Where am I?" Boyle asked. + +"In the home of friends," Anna answered. + +"Wud th' frien's donate a mouthful ov breath?" + +He was let up. The story of the night was told to him. He listened +attentively. When the story was told he thrust his hand into his pocket +and brought forth some change. + +"Hould yer han' out, ye black imp o' hell," he said to O'Hare. The sweep +obeyed, but remarked that the town clock had already struck twelve. "I +don't care a damn if it's thirteen!" he said. "That's fur bread, that's +fur tay, that's fur tobacco an' that's fur somethin' that runs down yer +throat like a rasp, _fur me_. Now don't let th' grass grow undther yer +flat feet, ye divil." + +After some minor instructions from Anna, the sweep went off on his +midnight errand. The neighbors were sent home. The kettle replaced the +pot on the chain, and we gathered full of ecstasy close to the fire. + +"Whisht!" Anna said. We listened. Above the roar of the wind and the +rattling of the casement we heard a loud noise. + +"It's Billy thunderin' at Marget Hurll's doore," Jamie said. + +O'Hare arrived with a bang! He put his bundles down on the table and +vigorously swung his arms like flails around him to thaw himself out. +Anna arranged the table and prepared the meal. Billy and Jamie went at +the tobacco. Boyle took the whiskey and said: + +"I thank my God an' the holy angels that I'm in th' house ov timperance +payple!" Then looking at Jamie, he said: + +"Here's t' ye, Jamie, an' ye, Anna, an' th' scoundthrel O'Hare, an' +here's t' th' three that niver bred, th' priest, th' pope, an' th' +mule!" + +Then at a draft he emptied the bottle and threw it behind the fire, +grunting his satisfaction. + +"Wudn't that make a corpse turn 'round in his coffin?" Billy said. + +"Keep yer eye on that loaf, Billy, or he'll be dhrinkin' our health in +it!" Jamie remarked humorously. + +Boyle stretched himself on the floor and yawned. The little table was +brought near the fire, the loaf was cut in slices and divided. It was a +scene that brought us to the edge of tears--tears of joy. Anna's face +particularly beamed. She talked as she prepared, and her talk was of +God's appearance at the end of every tether, and of the silver lining on +the edge of every cloud. She had a penchant for mottoes, but she never +used them in a siege. It was when the siege was broken she poured them +in and they found a welcome. As she spoke of God bringing relief, Boyle +got up on his haunches. + +"Anna," he said, "if aanybody brot me here th' night it was th' oul +divil in hell." + +"'Deed yer mistaken, Felix," she answered sweetly. "When God sends a +maan aanywhere he always gets there, even if he has to be taken there by +th' divil." + +When all was ready we gathered around the table. "How I wish we could +sing!" she said as she looked at us. The answer was on every face. +Hunger would not wait on ceremony. We were awed into stillness and +silence, however, when she raised her hand in benediction. We bowed our +heads. Boyle crossed himself. + +"Father," she said, "we thank Thee for sendin' our friend Felix here th' +night. Bless his wife an' wains, bless them in basket an' store an' take +good care of his oul mare. Amen!" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH + + +I sat on a fence in a potato field, whittling an alder stick into a +pea-blower one afternoon in the early autumn when I noticed at the other +end of the field the well-known figure of "the master." He was dressed +as usual in light gray and as usual rode a fine horse. I dropped off the +fence as if I had been shot. He urged the horse to a gallop. I pushed +the clumps of red hair under my cap and pressed it down tightly on my +head. Then I adjusted the string that served as a suspender. On came the +galloping horse. A few more lightning touches to what covered my +nakedness and he reined up in front of me! I straightened up like a +piece of whalebone! + +"What are you doing?" he asked in that far-off imperious voice of his. + +"Kapin' th' crows off th' pirtas, yer honor!" + +"You need a new shirt!" he said. The blood rushed to my face. I tried to +answer, but the attempt seemed to choke me. + +"You need a new shirt!" he almost yelled at me. I saw a smile playing +about the corners of his fine large eyes. It gave me courage. + +"Aye, yer honor, 'deed that's thrue." + +"Why don't you get one?" The answer left my mind and traveled like a +flash to the glottis, but that part of the machinery was out of order +and the answer hung fire. I paused, drew a long breath that strained the +string. Then matching his thin smile with a thick grin I replied: + +"Did yer honor iver work fur four shillin's a week and share it wid nine +others?" + +"No!" he said and the imprisoned smile was released. + +"Well, if ye iver do, shure ye'll be lucky to haave skin, let alone +shirt!" + +"You consider yourself lucky, then?" + +"Aye, middlin'." + +He galloped away and I lay down flat on my back, wiped the sweat from my +brow with the sleeve of my jacket, turned the hair loose and eased up +the string. + +That night at the first sound of the farm-yard bell I took to my heels +through the fields, through the yard and down the Belfast road to +Withero's stone-pile. Willie was just quitting for the day. I was almost +breathless, but I blurted out what then seemed to me the most important +happening in my life. + +Willie took his eye-protectors off and looked at me. + +"So ye had a crack wi' the masther, did ye?" + +"Aye, quite a crack." + +"He mistuk ye fur a horse!" he said. This damper on my enthusiasm drew +an instant reply. + +"'Deed no, nor an ass naither." + +Willie bundled up his hammers and prepared to go home. He took out his +flint and steel. Over the flint he laid a piece of brown paper, +chemically treated, then he struck the flint a sharp blow with the +steel, a spark was produced, the spark ignited the paper, it began to +burn in a smoldering, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into the bowl +of his pipe, and began the smoke that was to carry him over the journey +home. I shouldered some of his hammers and we trudged along the road +toward Antrim. + +"Throth, I know yer no ass, me bhoy, though Jamie's a good dale ov a +mule, but yer Ma's got wit enough fur the family. That answer ye gave +Misther Chaine was frum yer Ma. It was gey cute an'll git ye a job, I'll +bate." + +I had something else to tell him, but I dreaded his critical mind. When +we got to the railway bridge he laid his hammers on the wall while he +relit his pipe. I saw my last opportunity and seized it. + +"Say, Willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' that made ye feel fine all +over and--and--made ye pray?" + +"I niver pray," he said. "These wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air +jist like oul Hughie Thornton wi' his pockets bulgin' wi' scroof +(crusts). They're naggin at God from Aysther t' Christmas t' fill their +pockets! A good day's stone breakin's my prayer. At night I jist say, +'Thank ye, Father!' In th' mornin' I say 'Morra, Father, how's all up +aroun' th' throne this mornin'?'" + +"An' does He spake t' ye back?" + +"Ov coorse, d'ye think He's got worse manners nor me? He says, 'Hello, +Willie,' says He. 'How's it wi' ye this fine mornin'?' 'Purty fine, +Father, purty fine,' says I. But tell me, bhoy, was there a girl aroun' +whin that feelin' struck ye?" + +"Divil a girl, at all!" + +"Them feelin's sometimes comes frum a girl, ye know. I had wan wanst, +but that's a long story, heigh ho; aye, that's a long story!" + +"Did she die, Willie?" + +"Never mind her. That feelin' may haave been from God. Yer Ma hes a +quare notion that wan chile o' her'n will be inclined that way. She's +dhrawn eleven blanks, maybe she's dhrawn a prize, afther all; who +knows." + +Old McCabe, the road mender, overtook us and for the rest of the journey +I was seen but not heard. + +That night I sat by her side in the chimney-corner and recited the +events of the day. It had been full of magic, mystery and meaning to me. +The meaning was a little clearer to me after the recital. + +"Withero sometimes talks like a ha'penny book wi' no laves in it," she +said. "But most of the time he's nearer the facts than most of us. It +isn't all blether, dear." + +We sat up late, long after the others had gone to sleep. She read softly +a chapter of "Pilgrim's Progress," the chapter in which he is relieved +of his burden. I see now that woodcut of a gate and over the gate the +words: "Knock and it shall be opened unto you." She had read it before. +I was familiar with it, but in the light of that day's experience it had +a new meaning. She warned me, however, that my name was neither Pilgrim +nor Withero, and in elucidating her meaning she explained the phrase, +"The wind bloweth where it listeth." I learned to listen for the sound +thereof and I wondered from whence it came, not only the wind of the +heavens, but the spirit that moved men in so many directions. + +The last act of that memorable night was the making of a picture. It +took many years to find out its meaning, but every stroke of the brush +is as plain to me now as they were then. + +"Ye'll do somethin' for me?" + +"Aye, aanything in th' world." + +"Ye won't glunch nor ask questions?" + +"Not a question." + +"Shut yer eyes an' stan' close t' th' table." I obeyed. She put into +each hand a smooth stick with which Jamie had smoothed the soles of +shoes. + +"Jist for th' now these are the handles of a plow. Keep yer eyes shut +tight. Ye've seen a maan plowin' a field?" + +"Aye." + +"Think that ye see a long, long field. Ye're plowin' it. The other end +is so far away ye can't see it. Ye see a wee bit of the furrow, jist a +wee bit. Squeeze th' plow handles." I squeezed. + +"D'ye see th' trees yonder?" + +"Aye." + +"An' th' birds pickin' in th' furrow?" + +"Ay-e." + +She took the sticks away and gently pushed me on a stool and told me I +might open my eyes. + +"That's quare," I said. + +"Listen, dear, ye've put yer han' t' th' plow; ye must niver, niver take +it away. All through life ye'll haave thim plow handles in yer han's an' +ye'll be goin' down th' furrow. Ye'll crack a stone here and there, th' +plow'll stick often an' things'll be out of gear, but yer in th' furrow +all the time. Ye'll change horses, ye'll change clothes, ye'll change +yerself, but ye'll always be in the furrow, plowin', plowin', plowin'! +I'll go a bit of th' way, Jamie'll go a bit, yer brothers an' sisters a +bit, but we'll dhrap out wan b' wan. Ye're God's plowmaan." + +As I stood to say good-night she put her hand on my head and muttered +something that was not intended for me to hear. Then she kissed me good +night and I climbed to my pallet under the thatch. + +I was afraid to sleep, lest the "feelin'" should take wings. When I was +convinced that some of it, at least, would remain, I tried to sleep and +couldn't. The mingled ecstasy and excitement was too intense. I heard +the town clock strike the hours far into the morning. + +Before she awoke next morning I had exhausted every agency in the house +that would coördinate flesh and spirit. When I was ready I tiptoed to +her bedside and touched her on the cheek. Instantly she awoke and sat +upright. I put my hands on my hips and danced before her. It was a +noiseless dance with bare feet on the mud floor. + +Her long thin arms shot out toward me and I buried myself in them. "So +it stayed," she whispered in my ear. + +"Aye, an' there's more of it." + +She arose and dressed quickly. A live coal was scraped out of the ashes +and a turf fire built around it. My feet were winged as I flew to the +town well for water. When I returned she had several slices of toast +ready. Toast was a luxury. Of course there was always--or nearly +always--bread, and often there was butter, but toast to the very poor in +those days wasn't merely a matter of bread and butter, fire and time! It +was more often inclination that turned the balance for or against it, +and inclination always came on the back of some emotion, chance or +circumstance. Here all the elements met and the result was toast. + +I took a mouthful of her tea out of her cup; she reciprocated. We were +like children. Maybe we were. Love tipped our tongues, winged our feet, +opened our hearts and hands and permeated every thought and act. She +stood at the mouth of the entry until I disappeared at the town head. +While I was yet within sight I looked back half a dozen times and we +waved our hands. + +It was nearly a year before a dark line entered this spiritual spectrum. +It was inevitable that such a mental condition--ever in search of a +larger expression--should gravitate toward the Church. It has seemed +also that it was just as inevitable that the best thought of which the +Church has been the custodian should be crystallized into a creed. I was +promoted to the "big house." There, of course, I was overhauled and put +in touch with the fittings and furniture. As a flunkey I had my first +dose of boiled linen and I liked it. + +I was enabled now to attend church and Sunday School. Indeed, I would +have gone there, religion or no religion, for where else could I have +sported a white shirt and collar? With my boiled linen and my brain +stuffed with texts I gradually drew away from the chimney-corner and +never again did I help Willie Withero to carry his hammers. Ah, if one +could only go back over life and correct the mistakes. + +Gradually I lost the warm human feeling and substituted for it a +theology. I began to look upon my mother as one about whose salvation +there was some doubt. I urged her to attend church. Forms and ceremonies +became the all-important things and the life and the spirit were +proportionately unimportant. I became mildewed with the blight of +respectability. I became the possessor of a hard hat that I might ape +the respectables. I walked home every night from Ballycraigie with Jamie +Wallace, and Jamie was the best-dressed working man in the town. I was +treading a well-worn pathway. I was "getting on." A good slice of my new +religion consisted in excellency of service to my employers--my +"betters." Preacher, priest and peasant thought alike on these topics. +Anna was pleased to see me in a new garb, but she noticed and I noticed +that I had grown away from the corner. In the light of my new adjustment +I saw _duties_ plainer, but duty may become a hammer by which affection +may be beaten to death. + +I imagined the plow was going nicely in the furrow, for I wasn't +conscious of striking any snags or stones, but Anna said: + +"A plowman who skims th' surface of th' sod strikes no stones, dear, but +it's because he isn't plowin' _deep_!" + +I have plowed deep enough since, but too late to go back and compare +notes. + +She was pained, but tried to hide it. If she was on the point of tears +she would tell a funny story. + +"Acushla," she said to me one night after a theological discussion, +"sure ye remind me of a ducklin' hatched by a hen." + +"Why?" + +"We're at home in conthrary elements. Ye use texts t' fight with an' I +use thim to get pace of heart!" + +"Are you wiser nor Mr. Holmes, an' William Brennan an' Miss McGee?" I +asked. "Them's th' ones that think as I do--I mane I think as they do!" + +"No, 'deed I'm not as wise as aany of thim, but standin' outside a wee +bit I can see things that can't be seen inside. Forby they haave no +special pathway t' God that's shut t' me, nor yer oul father nor Willie +Withero!" + +Sometimes Jamie took a hand. Once when he thought Anna was going to cry, +in an argument, he wheeled around in his seat and delivered himself. + +"I'll tell ye, Anna, that whelp needs a good argyment wi' th' tongs! +Jist take thim an' hit 'im a skite on the jaw wi' thim an' I'll say, +'Amen.'" + +"That's no clinch to an argyment," I said, "an thruth is thruth!" + +"Aye, an' tongs is tongs! An' some o' ye young upstarts whin ye get a +dickey on an' a choke-me-tight collar think yer jist ready t' sit down +t' tay wi' God!" + +Anna explained and gave me more credit than was due me. So Jamie ended +the colloquy by the usual cap to his every climax. + +"Well, what th' ---- do I know about thim things, aanyway. Let's haave a +good cup o' tay an' say no more about it!" + +The more texts I knew the more fanatical I became. And the more of a +fanatic I was the wider grew the chasm that divided me from my mother. I +talked as if I knew "every saint in heaven and every divil in hell." + +She was more than patient with me, though my spiritual conceit must have +given her many a pang. Antrim was just beginning to get accustomed to my +new habiliments of boots, boiled linen and hat when I left to "push my +fortune" in other parts. My enthusiasm had its good qualities too, and +she was quick to recognize them, quicker than to notice its blemishes. +My last hours in the town--on the eve of my first departure--I spent +with her. "I feel about you, dear," she said, laughing, "as Micky Free +did about the soul of his father in Purgatory. He had been payin' for +masses for what seemed to him an uncommonly long time. 'How's th' oul +bhoy gettin' on?' Micky asked the priest. 'Purty well, Micky, his head +is out.' 'Begorra, thin, I know th' rist ov 'im will be out soon--I'll +pay for no more masses!' Your head is up and out from the bottom of th' +world, and I haave faith that ye'll purty soon be all out, an' some day +ye'll get the larger view, for ye'll be in a larger place an' ye'll +haave seen more of people an' more of the world." + +I have two letters of that period. One I wrote her from Jerusalem in the +year 1884. As I read the yellow, childish epistle I am stung with +remorse that it is full of the narrow sectarianism that still held me in +its grip. The other is dated Antrim, July, 1884, and is her answer to my +sectarian appeal. + +"Dear boy," she says, "Antrim has had many soldier sons in far-off +lands, but you are the first, I think, to have the privilege of visiting +the Holy Land. Jamie and I are proud of you. All the old friends have +read your letter. They can hardly believe it. Don't worry about our +souls. When we come one by one in the twilight of life, each of us, +Jamie and I, will have our sheaves. They will be little ones, but we are +little people. I want no glory here or hereafter that Jamie cannot +share. I gave God a plowman, but your father says I must chalk half of +that to his account. Hold tight the handles and plow deep. We watch the +candle and every wee spark thrills our hearts, for we know it's a letter +from you. + +"Your loving mother." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +"BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' TH' CLOUDS" + + +When the bill-boards announced that I was to deliver a lecture on +"England in the Soudan" in the only hall in the town, Antrim turned out +to satisfy its curiosity. "How doth this man know, not having learned," +the wise ones said, for when I shook the dust of its blessed streets +from my brogues seven years previously I was an illiterate. + +Anna could have told them, but none of the wise knew her, for curiously +enough to those who knew of her existence, but had never seen her, she +was known as "Jamie's wife." Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers +were there; several ministers, some quality, near quality, the +inhabitants of the entries in the "Scotch quarter" and all the newsboys +in town. The fact that I personally bribed the newsboys accounted for +their presence. I bought them out and reserved the front seats for them. +It was in the way of a class reunion with me. Billy O'Hare had gone +beyond--where there are no chimneys, and Ann where she could keep clean: +they were both dead. Many of the old familiar faces were absent, they +too had gone--some to other lands, some to another world. Jamie was +there. He sat between Willie Withero and Ben Baxter. He heard little of +what was said and understood less of what he heard. The vicar, Mr. +Holmes, presided. There was a vote of thanks, followed by the customary +seconding by public men, then "God save the Queen," and I went home to +tell Anna about it. + +Jamie took one arm and Withero clung to the other. + +"Jamie!" shouted Withero in a voice that could be heard by the crowd +that followed us, "d'ye mind th' first time I seen ye wi' Anna?" + +"Aye, 'deed I do!" + +"Ye didn't know it was in 'er, did ye, Jamie?" + +"Yer a liar, Willie; I know'd frum th' minute I clapped eyes on 'er that +she was th' finest wuman on God's futstool!" + +"Ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' doubt there is, Jamie, but jist +th' same any oul throllop can be a father, but by G-- it takes a rale +wuman t' be th' mother ov a rale maan! Put that in yer pipe an' smoke +it." + +"He seems t' think," said Jamie, appealing to me, "that only quality can +projuce fine childther!" + +"Yer spakin' ov clothes, Jamie; I'm spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind +th' doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but begorra, Anna was at th' head +ov th' class, an' that's no feerie story, naither, is it, me bhoy?" + +At the head of Pogue's entry, Bob Dougherty, Tommy Wilson, Sam +Manderson, Lucinda Gordon and a dozen others stopped for a "partin' +crack." + +The kettle was boiling on the chain. The hearth had been swept and a new +coat of whitening applied. There was a candle burning in her sconce and +the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face--a glory that was +encased in a newly tallied white cap. My sister sat on one side of the +fireplace and she on the other--in her corner. I did not wonder, I did +not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture--I +knew. They were more supremely interested than I was. They had never +heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their +last chance had passed by. There they were, in the light of a peat fire +and the tallow dip, supremely happy. + +The neighbors came in for a word with Anna. They filled the space. The +stools and creepies were all occupied. + +"Sit down, Willie," my father said. "Take a nice cushioned chair an' be +at home." Withero was leaning against the table. He saw and was equal to +the joke. + +"Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th' +groun', Jamie!" And down he sat on the mud floor. + +"It's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," Marget Hurll said, "an +Misther Armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn +out a boy like him!" + +Withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes--as a +preface to a few remarks. + +"Aye," he grunted, "I cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul Jamie whin +Armshtrong said that. Jamie cudn't hear it, so I whispered t' m'self, +'Begorra, if a wee fella turns _up_ whin Anthrim turns 'im out it's +little credit t' Anthrim I'm thinkin'!'" + +Anna laughed and Jamie, putting his hand behind his ear, asked: + +"What's that--what's that?" + +The name and remarks of the gentleman who seconded the vote of thanks +were repeated to him. + +"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed as he slapped me on the knee. "Well, well, +well, if that wudn't make a brass monkey laugh!" + +"Say," he said to me, "d'ye mind th' night ye come home covered wi' +clabber--" + +"Whisht!" I said, as I put my mouth to his ear. "I only want to mind +that he had three very beautiful daughters!" + +"Did ye iver spake t' aany o' thim?" Jamie asked. + +"Yes." + +"Whin?" + +"When I sold them papers." + +"Ha, ha, a ha'penny connection, eh?" + +"It's betther t' mind three fine things about a maan than wan mean +thing, Jamie," Anna said. + +"If both o' ye's on me I'm bate," he said. + +"Stop yer palaver an' let's haave a story ov th' war wi' th' naygars in +Egypt," Mrs. Hurll said. + +"Aye, that's right," one of the Gainer boys said. "Tell us what th' +queen give ye a medal fur!" + +They wanted a story of blood, so I smeared the tale red. When I finished +Anna said, "Now tell thim, dear, what ye tuk th' shillin' fur!" + +"You tell them, mother." + +"Ye tuk it t' fight ignorance an' not naygars, didn't ye?" + +"Yes, but that fight continues." + +"Aye, with you, but--" + +"Ah, never mind, mother, I have taken it up where you laid it down, and +long after--" that was far as I got, for Jamie exploded just then and +said: + +"Now get t' h--l home, ivery wan o' ye, an' give 's a minute wi' 'im +jist for ourselves, will ye?" + +He said it with laughter in his voice and it sounded in the ears of +those present as polite and pleasing as anything in the domain of their +amenities. + +They arose as one, all except Withero, and he couldn't, for Jamie +gripped him by a leg and held him on the floor just as he sat. + +In their good-night expressions the neighbors unconsciously revealed +what the lecture and the story meant to them. Summed up it meant, "Sure +it's jist wondtherful ye warn't shot!" + +When we were alone, alone with Withero, Mary "wet" a pot of tea and +warmed up a few farrels of fadges! and we commenced. Little was said, +but feeling ran high. It was like a midnight mass. Anna was silent, but +there were tears, and as I held her in my arms and kissed them away +Jamie was saying to Withero: + +"Ye might take 'im fur a dandther out where ye broke whin we first met +ye, Willie!" + +"Aye," Willie said, "I'm m' own gaffer, I will that." + +I slept at Jamie Wallace's that night, and next morning took the +"dandther" with Withero up the Dublin road, past "The Mount of +Temptation" to the old stone-pile that was no longer a pile, but a hole +in the side of the road. It was a sentimental journey that gave Willie a +chance to say some things I knew he wanted to say. + +"D'ye mind the pirta sack throusers Anna made ye onct?" + +"Yes, what of them?" + +"Did ye iver think ye cud git used t' aanything if ye wor forced t' +haave nothin' else fur a while?" + +"What's the point, Willie?" + +"Sit down here awhile an' I'll tell ye." + +We sat down on the bank of the roadside. He took out his pipe, steel and +flint, filled his pipe and talked as he filled. + +"Me an' Jamie wor pirta sack people, purty damned rough, too, but yer Ma +was a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she walked down this road wi' yer +Dah till this minit whin she's waitin' fur ye in the corner. Ivery +Sunday I've gone in jist t' hai a crack wi' 'er an' d' ye know, bhoy, I +got out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' week. She was i' hell on +sayin' words purcisely, but me an' Jamie wor too thick, an' begorra she +got used t' pirta sack words herself, but she was i' fine linen jist th' +same. + +"Wan day she says t' me, 'Willie,' says she, 'ye see people through +dirty specs.' 'How's that?' says I. 'I don't know,' says she, 'fur I +don't wear yer specs, but I think it's jist a poor habit ov yer mind. +Aych poor craither is made up ov some good an' much that isn't s' good, +an' ye see only what isn't s' good!' + +"Thin she towld m' somethin' which she niver towld aanyone else, 'cept +yer Dah, ov coorse. 'Willie,' says she, 'fur twenty years I've seen th' +Son ov Maan ivery day ov m' life!' + +"'How's that?' says I. + +"'I've more'n seen 'm. I've made tay fur 'im, an' broth on Sunday. I've +mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked +'is hair an' said kind words to 'im!' + +"'God Almighty!' says I, 'yer goin' mad, Anna!' She tuk her oul Bible +an' read t' me these words; I mind thim well: + +"'Whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers ye do it t' me!' + +"Well, me bhoy, I thunk an' I thunk over thim words an' wud ye believe +it--I begun t' clane m' specs. Wan day th' 'Dummy' came along t' m' +stone-pile. Ye mind 'er, don't ye?" (The Dummy was a harlot, who lived +in the woods up the Dublin road in summer, and Heaven only knows where +in winter.) + +"Th' Dummy," Willie continued, "came over t' th' pile an' acted purty +gay, but says I, 'Dummy, if there's anythin' I kin give ye I'll give it, +but there's nothin' ye kin give me!' + +"'Ye break stones fur a livin',' says she. + +"'Aye,' says I. + +"'What wud ye do if ye wor a lone wuman an' cudn't get nothin' at all t' +do?' + +"'I dunno,' says I. + +"'I don't want to argufy or palaver wi' a dacent maan,' says she, 'but +I'm terrible hungry.' + +"'Luk here,' says I, 'I've got a dozen pirtas I'm goin' t' roast fur m' +dinner. I'll roast thim down there be that gate, an' I'll lave ye six +an' a dhrink ov butthermilk. Whin ye see m' lave th' gate ye'll know yer +dinner's ready.' + +"'God save ye,' says she, 'may yer meal barrel niver run empty an' may +yer bread foriver be roughcasted wi' butther!' + +"I begun t' swither whin she left. Says I, 'Withero, is yer specs clane? +Kin ye see th' Son ov Maan in th' Dummy?' 'Begorra, I dunno,' says I t' +m'self. I scratched m' head an' swithered till I thought m' brains wud +turn t' stone. + +"Says I t' m'self at last, 'Aye, 'deed there must be th' spark there +what Anna talks about!' Jist then I heard yer mother's voice as plain as +I hear m' own now at this minute--an' what d'ye think Anna says?" + +"I don't know, Willie." + +"'So ye haave th' Son ov Maan t' dinner th' day?' 'Aye,' says I. + +"'An' givin' 'im yer lavins!' + +"It was like a piece ov stone cuttin' the ball ov m' eye. It cut deep! + +"I ran down th' road an' says I t' th' Dummy, 'I'll tie a rag on a stick +an' whin ye see m' wavin' it come an' take yer dinner an' I'll take +what's left!' + +"I didn't wait fur no answer, but went and did what I shud. + +"That summer whin she was hungry she hung an oul rag on th' thorn hedge +down be the wee plantain where she camped, and I answered be a rag on a +stick that she cud share mine and take hers first. One day I towld 'er +yer mother's story about th' Son ov Maan. It was th' only time I ever +talked wi' 'er. That winther she died in th' poorhouse and before she +died she sint me this." He pulled out of an inside pocket a piece of +paper yellow with age and so scuffed with handling that the scrawl was +scarcely legible: + + +_M Withero_ + Stone breaker + Dublin Road + Antrim + +"I seen Him in the ward last night and I'm content to go now. God save +you kindly. + THE DUMMY." + + +Withero having unburdened, we dandered down the road, through Masserene +and home. + +I proposed to Anna a little trip to Lough Neagh in a jaunting car. + +"No, dear, it's no use; I want to mind it jist as Jamie and I saw it +years an' years ago. I see it here in th' corner jist as plain as I saw +it then; forby Antrim wud never get over th' shock of seein' me in a +jauntin' car." + +"Then I'll tell you of a shorter journey. You have never seen the +Steeple. It's the most perfect of all the Round Towers in Ireland and +just one mile from this corner. Now don't deny me the joy of taking you +there. I'll guide you over the strand and away back of the poorhouse, +out at the station, and then it's just a hundred yards or so!" + +It took the combined efforts of Jamie, Withero, Mary and me to persuade +her, but she was finally persuaded, and dressed in a borrowed black +knitted cap and her wee Sunday shawl, she set out with us. + +"This is like a weddin'," Jamie said, as he tied the ribbons under her +chin. + +"Oh, it's worse, dear. It's a circus an' wake in wan, fur I'm about dead +an' he's turned clown for a while." In five minutes everybody in Pogue's +entry heard the news. They stood at the door waiting to have a look. + +Matty McGrath came in to see if there was "aanythin'" she could do. + +"Aye," Anna said, smiling, "ye can go over an' tell oul Ann Agnew where +I'm goin' so she won't worry herself t' death findin' out!" + +"She won't see ye," Jamie said. + +"She'd see a fly if it lit within a hundred yards of her!" + +We went down the Kill entry and over the rivulet we called "the strand." +There were stepping stones in the water and the passage was easy. As we +crossed she said: + +"Right here was th' first place ye ever came t' see th' sun dance on th' +water on Easter Sunday mornin'." + +We turned to the right and walked by the old burying ground of the +Unitarian meeting-house and past Mr. Smith's garden. Next to Smith's +garden was the garden of a cooper--I think his name was Farren. "Right +here," I said, "is where I commited my first crime!" + +"What was it?" she asked. + +"Stealing apples!" + +"Aye, what a townful of criminals we had then!" + +We reached the back of the poorhouse. James Gardner was the master of +it, and "goin' t' Jamie Gardner" was understood as the last march of +many of the inhabitants of Antrim, beginning with "Totther Jack Welch," +who was a sort of pauper _primus inter pares_ of the town. + +As we passed the little graveyard, we stood and looked over the fence at +the little boards, all of one size and one pattern, that marked each +grave. + +"God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "isn't it fearful not to git rid of +poverty even in death!" I saw a shudder pass over her face and I turned +mine away. + +Ten minutes later we emerged from the fields at the railway station. + +"You've never seen Mr. McKillop, the station master, have you?" I asked. + +"No." + +"Let us wait here for a minute, we may see him." + +"Oh, no, let's hurry on t' th' Steeple!" So on we hurried. + +It took a good deal of courage to enter when we got there, for the +far-famed Round Tower of Antrim is _private property_. Around it is a +stone wall enclosing the grounds of an estate. The Tower stands near the +house of the owner, and it takes temerity in the poor to enter. They +seldom do enter, as a matter of fact, for they are not particularly +interested in archeology. + +We timidly entered and walked up to the Tower. + +"So that's th' Steeple!" + +"Isn't it fine?" + +"Aye, it's wondtherful, but wudn't it be nice t' take our boots off an' +jist walk aroun' on this soft nice grass on our bare feet?" + +The lawn was closely clipped and as level as a billiard table. The trees +were dressed in their best summer clothing. Away in the distance we +caught glimpses of an abundance of flowers. The air was full of the +perfume of honeysuckle and sweet clover. Anna drank in the scenery with +almost childish delight. + +"D'ye think heaven will be as nice?" she asked. + +"Maybe." + +"If it is, we will take our boots off an' sit down, won't we?" And she +laughed like a girl. + +"If there are boots in the next world," I said, "there will be cobblers, +and you wouldn't want our old man to be a cobbler to all eternity?" + +"You're right," she said, "nor afther spending seventy-five years here +without bein' able to take my boots off an' walk on a nice lawn like +this wud I care to spend eternity without that joy!" + +"Do we miss what we've never had?" + +"Aye, 'deed we do. I miss most what I've never had!" + +"What, for instance?" + +"Oh, I'll tell ye th' night when we're alone!" + +We walked around the Tower and ventured once beneath the branches of a +big tree. + +"If we lived here, d'ye know what I'd like t' do?" + +"No." + +"Jist take our boots off an' play hide and go seek--wudn't it be fun?" + +I laughed loudly. + +"Whisht!" she said. "They'll catch us if you make a noise!" + +"You seem bent on getting your boots off!" I said laughingly. Her reply +struck me dumb. + +"Honey," she said, so softly and looking into my eyes, "do ye realize +that I have never stood on a patch of lawn in my life before?" + +Hand in hand we walked toward the gate, taking an occasional, wistful +glance back at the glory of the few, and thinking, both of us, of the +millions of tired feet that never felt the softness of a smooth green +sward. + +At eight o'clock that night the door was shut _and barred_. + +Jamie tacked several copies of the _Weekly Budget_ over the window and +we were alone. + +We talked of old times. We brought back the dead and smiled or sighed +over them. Old tales, of the winter nights of long ago, were retold with +a new interest. + +The town clock struck nine. + +We sat in silence as we used to sit, while another sexton tolled off the +days of the month after the ringing of the curfew. + +"Many's th' time ye've helter-skeltered home at th' sound of that bell!" +she said. + +"Yes, because the sound of the bell was always accompanied by a vision +of a wet welt hanging over the edge of the tub!" + +Jamie laughed and became reminiscent. + +"D'ye mind what ye said wan time whin I bate ye wi' th' stirrup?" + +"No, but I used to think a good deal more than I said." + +"Aye, but wan time I laid ye across m' knee an' give ye a good +shtrappin', then stud ye up an' says I, 'It hurts me worse than it hurts +ye, ye divil!' + +"'Aye,' says you, 'but it dizn't hurt ye in th' same place!' + +"I don't remember, but from time immemorial boys have thought and said +the same thing." + +"D'ye mind when _I_ bate ye?" Anna asked with a smile. + +"Yes, I remember you solemnly promised Jamie you would punish me and +when he went down to Barney's you took a long straw and lashed me +fearfully with it!" + +The town clock struck ten. + +Mary, who had sat silent all evening, kissed us all good night and went +to bed. + +I was at the point of departure for the New World. Jamie wanted to know +what I was going to do. I outlined an ambition, but its outworking was a +problem. It was beyond his ken. He could not take in the scope of it. +Anna could, for she had it from the day she first felt the movement of +life in me. It was unpretentious--nothing the world would call great. + +"Och, maan, but that wud be th' proud day fur Anna if ye cud do it." + +When the town clock struck eleven, Anna trembled. + +"Yer cowld, Anna," he said. "I'll put on a few more turf." + +"There's plenty on, dear; I'm not cold in my body." + +"Acushla, m' oul hide's like a buffalo's or I'd see that ye want 'im t' +yerself. I'm off t' bed!" + +We sat in silence gazing into the peat fire. Memory led me back down the +road to yesterday. She was out in the future and wandering in an unknown +continent with only hope to guide her. Yet we must get together, and +that quickly. + +"Minutes are like fine gold now," she said, "an' my tongue seems glued, +but I jist must spake." + +"We have plenty of time, mother." + +"Plenty!" she exclaimed. "Every clang of th' town clock is a knife +cuttin' th' cords--wan afther another--that bind me t' ye." + +"I want to know about your hope, your outlook, your religion," I said. + +"Th' biggest hope I've ever had was t' bear a chile that would love +everybody as yer father loved me!" + +"A sort of John-three-sixteen in miniature." + +"Aye." + +"The aim is high enough to begin with!" + +"Not too high!" + +"And your religion?" + +"All in all, it's bein' kind an' lovin' kindness. _That_ takes in God +an' maan an' Pogue's entry an' th' world." + +The town clock struck twelve. Each clang "a knife cutting a cord" and +each heavier and sharper than the last. Each one vibrating, tingling, +jarring along every nerve, sinew and muscle. A feeling of numbness crept +over me. + +"That's the end of life for me," she said slowly. There was a pause, +longer and more intense than all the others. + +"Maybe ye'll get rich an' forget." + +"Yes, I shall be rich. I shall be a millionaire--a millionaire of love, +but no one shall ever take your place, dear!" + +My overcoat served as a pillow. An old quilt made a pallet on the hard +floor. I found myself being pressed gently down from the low creepie to +the floor. I pretended to sleep. Her hot tears fell on my face. Her dear +toil-worn fingers were run gently through my hair. She was on her knees +by my side. The tender mysticism of her youth came back and expressed +itself in prayer. It was interspersed with tears and "Ave Maria!" + +When the first streak of dawn penetrated the old window we had our last +cup of tea together and later, when I held her in a long, lingering +embrace, there were no tears--we had shed them all in the silence of +the last vigil. When I was ready to go, she stood with her arm on the +old yellow mantel-shelf. She was rigid and pale as death, but around her +eyes and her mouth there played a smile. There was a look ineffable of +maternal love. + +"We shall meet again, mother," I said. + +"Aye, dearie, I know rightly we'll meet, but ochanee, it'll be out there +beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds." + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE EMPTY CORNER + + +When I walked into Pogue's entry about fifteen years later, it seemed +like walking into another world--I was a foreigner. + +"How quare ye spake!" Jamie said, and Mary added demurely: + +"Is it quality ye are that ye spake like it?" + +"No, faith, not at all," I said, "but it's the quality of America that +makes me!" + +"Think of that, now," she exclaimed. + +The neighbors came, new neighbors--a new generation, to most of whom I +was a tradition. Other boys and girls had left Antrim for America, +scores of them in the course of the years. There was a popular +supposition that we all knew each other. + +"Ye see th' Wilson bhoys ivery day, I'll bate," Mrs. Hainey said. + +"No, I have never seen any of them." + +"Saints alive, how's that?" + +"Because we live three thousand miles apart." + +"Aye, well, shure that 'ud be quite a dandther!" + +"It didn't take ye long t' git a fortune, did it?" another asked. + +"I never acquired a fortune such as you are thinking of." + +"Anna said ye wor rich!" + +"Anna was right, I am rich, but I was the richest boy in Antrim when I +lived here." + +They looked dumbfounded. + +"How's that?" Mrs. Conner queried. + +"Because Anna was my mother." + +I didn't want to discuss Anna at that time or to that gathering, so I +gave the conversation a sudden turn and diplomatically led them in +another direction. I explained how much easier it was for a policeman +than a minister to make a "fortune" and most Irishmen in America had a +special bias toward law! Jamie had grown so deaf that he could only hear +when I shouted into his ear. Visitors kept on coming, until the little +house was uncomfortably full. + +"Wouldn't it be fine," I shouted into Jamie's ear, "if Billy O'Hare or +Withero could just drop in now?" + +"God save us all," he said, "th' oul days an' oul faces are gone +foriver." After some hours of entertainment the uninvited guests were +invited to go home. + +I pulled Jamie's old tub out into the center of the floor and, taking my +coat off, said gently: "Now, good neighbors, I have traveled a long +distance and need a bath, and if you don't mind I'll have one at once!" + +They took it quite seriously and went home quickly. As soon as the house +was cleared I shut and barred the door and Mary and I proceeded to +prepare the evening meal. + +I brought over the table and put it in its place near the fire. In +looking over the old dresser I noticed several additions to the +inventory I knew. The same old plates were there, many of them broken +and arranged to appear whole. All holes, gashes, dents and cracks were +turned back or down to deceive the beholder. There were few whole pieces +on the dresser. + +"Great guns, Mary," I exclaimed, "here are two new plates and a new cup! +Well, well, and you never said a word in any of your letters about +them." + +"Ye needn't get huffed if we don't tell ye all the startlin' things!" +Mary said. + +"Ah!" I exclaimed, "there's _her_ cup!" I took the precious thing from +the shelf. The handle was gone, there was a gash at the lip and a few +new cracks circling around the one I was familiar with twenty years +previously. + +What visions of the past came to me in front of that old dresser! How +often in the long ago she had pushed that old cup gently toward me along +the edge of the table--gently, to escape notice and avoid jealousy. +Always at the bottom of it a teaspoonful of _her_ tea and beneath the +tea a bird's-eye-full of sugar. Each fairy picture of straggling tea +leaves was our moving picture show of those old days. We all had tea +leaves, but she had imagination. How we laughed and sighed and swithered +over the fortunes spread out all over the inner surface of that cup! + +"If ye stand there affrontin' our poor oul delf all night we won't haave +aany tea at all!" Mary said. The humor had gone from my face and speech +from my tongue. I felt as one feels when he looks for the last time upon +the face of his best friend. Mary laughed when I laid the old cup on a +comparatively new saucer at my place. There was another laugh when I +laid it out for customs inspection in the port of New York. I had a set +of rather delicate after-dinner coffee cups. One bore the arms of +Coventry in colors; another had the seal of St. John's College, Oxford; +one was from Edinburgh and another from Paris. They looked aristocratic. +I laid them out in a row and at the end of the row sat the proletarian, +forlorn and battered--Anna's old tea-cup. + +"What did you pay for this?" asked the inspector as he touched it +contemptuously with his official toe. + +"Never mind what I paid for it," I replied, "it's valued at a million +dollars!" The officer laughed and I think the other cups laughed also, +but they were not contemptuous; they were simply jealous. + +Leisurely I went over the dresser, noting the new chips and cracks, +handling them, maybe fondling some of them and putting them as I found +them. + +"I'll jist take a cup o' tay," Jamie said, "I'm not feelin' fine." + +I had less appetite than he had, and Mary had less than either of us. So +we sipped our tea for awhile in silence. + +"She didn't stay long afther ye left," Jamie said, without looking up. +Turning to Mary he continued, "How long was it, aanyway, Mary?" + +"Jist a wee while." + +"Aye, I know it wasn't long." + +"Did she suffer much?" I asked. + +"She didn't suffer aany at all," he said, "she jist withered like th' +laves on th' threes." + +"She jist hankered t' go," Mary added. + +"Wan night whin Mary was asleep," Jamie continued, "she read over again +yer letther--th' wan where ye wor spakin' so much about fishin'." + +"Aye," I said, "I had just been appointed missionary to a place called +the Bowery, in New York, and I wrote her that I was no longer her +plowman, but her _fisher of men_." + +"Och, maan, if ye cud haave heard her laugh over th' different kinds ov +fishes ye wor catchin'! Iv'ry day for weeks she read it an' laughed an' +cried over it. That night she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I don't +care s' much fur fishers ov men as I do for th' plowman.' 'Why?' says I. + +"'Because,' says she, 'a gey good voice an' nice clothes will catch men, +an' wimen too, but it takes brains t' plow up th' superstitions ov th' +ignorant.' + +"'There's somethin' in that,' says I. + +"'Tell 'im whin he comes,' says she, 'that I put th' handles ov a plow +in his han's an' he's t' let go ov thim only in death.' + +"'I'll tell 'm,' says I, 'but it's yerself that'll be here whin he +comes,' says I. She smiled like an' says she, 'What ye don't know, +Jamie, wud make a pretty big library.' 'Aye,' says I, 'I haaven't aany +doubt ov that, Anna.'" + +"There was a loud knock at the door." + +"Let thim dundther," Mary said. He put his hand behind his ear and asked +eagerly: + +"What is 't?" + +"Somebody's dundtherin'." + +"Let thim go t' h----," he said angrily. + +"Th' tuk 'im frum Anna last time, th' won't take 'im frum me an' you, +Mary." + +Another and louder knock. + +"It's Misthress Healy," came a voice. Again his hand was behind his ear. +The name was repeated to him. + +"Misthress Healy, is it; well, I don't care a d--n if it was Misthress +Toe-y!" + +For a quarter of a century my sister has occupied my mother's +chimney-corner, but it was vacant that night. She sat on my father's +side of the fire. He and I sat opposite each other at the table--I on +the same spot, on the same stool where I used to sit when her cup +toward the close of the meal came traveling along the edge of the table +and where her hand with a crust in it would sometimes blindly grope for +mine. + +But she was not there. In all my life I have never seen a space so +empty! + +My father was a peasant, with all the mental and physical +characteristics of his class. My sister is a peasant woman who has been +cursed with the same grinding poverty that cursed my mother's life. +About my mother there was a subtlety of intellect and a spiritual +quality that even in my ignorance was fascinating to me. I returned +equipped to appreciate it and she was gone. Gone, and a wide gulf lay +between those left behind, a gulf bridged by the relation we have to the +absent one more than by the relation we bore to each other. + +We felt as keenly as others the kinship of the flesh, but there are +kinships transcendentally higher, nobler and of a purer nature than the +nexus of the flesh. There were things to say that had to be left unsaid. +They had not traveled that way. The language of my experience would have +been a foreign tongue to them. _She_ would have understood. + +"Wan night be th' fire here," Jamie said, taking the pipe out of his +mouth, "she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I'm clane done, jist clane +done, an' I won't be long here.' + +"'Och, don't spake s' downmouth'd, Anna,' says I. 'Shure ye'll feel fine +in th' mornin'.' + +"'Don't palaver,' says she, an' she lukt terrible serious. + +"'My God, Anna,' says I, 'ye wudn't be lavin' me alone,' says I, 'I +can't thole it.' + +"'Yer more strong,' says she, 'an' ye'll live till he comes back--thin +we'll be t'gether.'" + +He stopped there. He could go no farther for several minutes. + +"I hate a maan that gowls, but--" + +"Go on," I said, "have a good one and Mary and I will wash the cups and +saucers." + +"D'ye know what he wants t' help me fur?" Mary asked, with her mouth +close to his ear. + +"No." + +"He wants t' dhry thim so he can kiss _her_ cup whin he wipes it! Kiss +her _cup_, ye mind; and right content with that!" + +"I don't blame 'im," said he, "I'd kiss th' very groun' she walked on!" + +As we proceeded to wash the cups, Mary asked: + +"Diz th' ministhers in America wash dishes?" + +"Some of them." + +"What kind?" + +"My kind." + +"What do th' others do?" + +"The big ones lay corner-stones and the little ones lay foundations." + +"Saints alive," she said, "an' what do th' hens do?" + +"They clock" (hatch). + +"Pavin' stones?" + +"I didn't say pavin' stones!" + +"Oh, aye," she laughed loudly. + +"Luk here," Jamie said, "I want t' laugh too. Now what th' ---- is't yer +gigglin' at?" + +I explained. + +He smiled and said: + +"Jazus, bhoy, that reminds me ov Anna, she cud say more funny things +than aany wan I iver know'd." + +"And that reminds me," I said, "that the word you have just misused +_she_ always pronounced with a caress!" + +"Aye, I know rightly, but ye know I mane no harm, don't ye?" + +"I know, but you remember when _she_ used that word every letter in it +was dressed in its best Sunday clothes, wasn't it?" + +"Och, aye, an' I'd thravel twinty miles jist t' hear aany wan say it +like Anna!" + +"Well, I have traveled tens of thousands of miles and I have heard the +greatest preachers of the age, but I never heard any one pronounce it so +beautifully!" + +"But as I was a-sayin' bhoy, I haaven't had a rale good laugh since she +died; haave I, Mary?" + +"I haaven't naither," Mary said. + +"Aye, but ye've had double throuble, dear." + +"We never let trouble rob us of laughter when I was here." + +"Because whin ye wor here she was here too. In thim days whin throuble +came she'd tear it t' pieces an' make fun ov aych piece, begorra. Ye +might glour an' glunch, but ye'd haave t' laugh before th' finish--shure +ye wud!" + +The neighbors began to knock again. Some of the knocks were vocal and as +plain as language. Some of the more familiar gaped in the window. + +"Hes he hed 'is bath yit?" asked McGrath, the ragman. + +We opened the door and in marched the inhabitants of our vicinity for +the second "crack." + +This right of mine own people to come and go as they pleased suggested +to me the thought that if I wanted to have a private conversation with +my father I would have to take him to another town. + +The following day we went to the churchyard together--Jamie and I. Over +her grave he had dragged a rough boulder and on it in a straggling, +unsteady, amateur hand were painted her initials and below them his own. +He was unable to speak there, and maybe it was just as well. I knew +everything he wanted to say. It was written on his deeply furrowed face. +I took his arm and led him away. + +Our next call was at Willie Withero's stone-pile. There, when I +remembered the nights that I passed in my new world of starched linen, +too good to shoulder a bundle of his old hammers, I was filled with +remorse. I uncovered my head and in an undertone muttered, "God forgive +me." + +"Great oul bhoy was Willie," he said. + +"Aye." + +"Och, thim wor purty nice times whin he'd come in o' nights an' him an' +Anna wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an' I'll soon be wi' +thim." + +I bade farewell to Mary and took him to Belfast--for a private talk. +Every day for a week we went out to the Cave hill--to a wild and lonely +spot where I had a radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. The thing +of all things that I wanted him to know was that in America I had been +engaged in the same fight with poverty that they were familiar with at +home. It was hard for him to think of a wolf of hunger at the door of +any home beyond the sea. It was astounding to him to learn that around +me always there were thousands of ragged, starving people. He just gaped +and exclaimed: + +"It's quare, isn't it?" + +We sat on the grass on the hillside, conscious each of us that we were +saying the things one wants to say on the edge of the grave. + +"She speyed I'd live t' see ye," he said. + +"She speyed well," I answered. + +"Th' night she died somethin' wontherful happened t' me. I wasn't as +deef as I am now, but I was purty deef. D'ye know, that night I cud +hear th' aisiest whisper frum her lips--I cud that. She groped fur m' +han; 'Jamie,' says she, 'it's nearly over, dear.' + +"'God love ye,' says I. + +"'Aye,' says she, 'if He'll jist love me as ye've done it'll be fine.' +Knowin' what a rough maan I'd been, I cudn't thole it. + +"'Th' road's been gey rocky an' we've made many mistakes.' + +"'Aye,' I said, 'we've barged (scolded) a lot, Anna, but we didn't mane +it.' + +"'No,' says she, 'our crock ov love was niver dhrained.' + +"I brot a candle in an' stuck it in th' sconce so 's I cud see 'er +face." + +"'We might haave done betther,' says she, 'but sich a wee house, so many +childther an' so little money.' + +"'We war i' hard up,' says I. + +"'We wor niver hard up in love, wor we?' + +"'No, Anna,' says I, 'but love dizn't boil th' kittle.' + +"'Wud ye rather haave a boilin' kittle than love if ye had t' choose?' + +"'Och, no, not at all, ye know rightly I wudn't.' + +"'Forby, Jamie, we've given Antrim more'n such men as Lord Massarene.' + +"'What's that?' says I. + +"'A maan that loves th' poorest craithers on earth an' serves thim.' + +"She had a gey good sleep afther that." + +"'Jamie,' says she whin she awoke, 'was I ravin'?' + +"'Deed no, Anna,' says I. + +"'I'm not ravin' now, am I?' + +"'Acushla, why do ye ask sich a question?' + +"'Tell 'im I didn't like "fisher ov men" as well as "th' plowman." It's +aisy t' catch thim fish, it's hard t' plow up ignorance an' +superstition--tell 'im that fur me, Jamie?' + +"'Aye, I'll tell 'im, dear.' + +"'Ye mind what I say'd t' ye on th' road t' Antrim, Jamie? That "love is +Enough"?' + +"'Aye.' + +"'I tell ye again wi' my dyin' breath.' + +"I leaned over an' kiss't 'er an' she smiled at me. Ah, bhoy, if ye +could haave seen that luk on 'er face, it was like a picture ov th' +Virgin, it was that. + +"'Tell th' childther there's only wan kind ov poverty, Jamie, an' that's +t' haave no love in th' heart,' says she. + +"'Aye, I'll tell thim, Anna,' says I." + +He choked up. The next thought that suggested itself for expression +failed of utterance. The deep furrows on his face grew deeper. His lips +trembled. When he could speak, he said: + +"My God, bhoy, we had to beg a coffin t' bury 'er in!" + +"If I had died at the same time," I said, "they would have had to do the +same for me!" + +"How quare!" he said. + +I persuaded him to accompany me to one of the largest churches in +Belfast. I was to preach there. That was more than he expected and the +joy of it was overpowering. + +I do not remember the text, nor could I give at this distance of time an +outline of the discourse: it was one of those occasions when a man +stands on the borderland of another world. I felt distinctly the +spiritual guidance of an unseen hand. I took her theme and spoke more +for her approval than for the approval of the crowd. + +He could not hear, but he listened with his eyes. On the street, after +the service, he became oblivious of time and place and people. He threw +his long lean arms around my neck and kissed me before a crowd. He hoped +Anna was around listening. I told him she was and he said he would like +to be "happed up" beside her, as he had nothing further to hope for in +life. + +In fear and trembling he crossed the Channel with me. In fear lest he +should die in Scotland and they would not bury him in Antrim churchyard +beside Anna. We visited my brothers and sisters for several days. Every +day we took long walks along the country roads. These walks were full of +questionings. Big vital questions of life and death and immorality. +They were quaintly put: + +"There's a lot of balderdash about another world, bhoy. On yer oath now, +d'ye think there is wan?" + +"I do." + +"If there is wud He keep me frum Anna jist because I've been kinda +rough?" + +"I am sure He wouldn't!" + +"He wudn't be s' d--d niggardly, wud He?" + +"Never! God is love and love doesn't work that way!" + +At the railway station he was still pouring in his questions. + +"D'ye believe in prayer?" + +"Aye." + +"Well, jist ax sometimes that Anna an' me be together, will ye?" + +"Aye." + +A little group of curious bystanders stood on the platform watching the +little trembling old man clinging to me as the tendril of a vine clings +to the trunk of a tree. + +"We have just one minute, Father!" + +"Aye, aye, wan minute--my God, why cudn't ye stay?" + +"There are so many voices calling me over the sea." + +"Aye, that's thrue." + +He saw them watching him and he feebly dragged me away from the crowd. +He kissed me passionately, again and again, on the lips. The whistle +blew. + +"All aboard!" the guard shouted. He clutched me tightly and clung to me +with the clutch of a drowning man. I had to extricate myself and spring +on board. I caught a glimpse of him as the train moved out; despair and +a picture of death was on his face. His lips were trembling and his eyes +were full of tears. + + * * * * * + +A few months later they lowered him to rest beside my mother. I want to +go back some day and cover them with a slab of marble, on which their +names will be cut, and these words: + + +"Love is Enough." + + + + +THE END + + + + + +-----------------------------------+ + |Transcriber's Note: | + |Inconsistent hyphenization retained| + +-----------------------------------+ + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's My Lady of the Chimney Corner, by Alexander Irvine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY CORNER *** + +***** This file should be named 31765-8.txt or 31765-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/7/6/31765/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Joseph R. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: My Lady of the Chimney Corner + +Author: Alexander Irvine + +Release Date: March 25, 2010 [EBook #31765] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY CORNER *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Joseph R. Hauser and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 349px;"> +<img src="images/cover01.jpg" width="349" height="500" alt="" title="Cover" /> +</div> + + +<h1>MY LADY OF THE<br /> +CHIMNEY CORNER</h1> + +<h4>BY</h4> + +<h2>ALEXANDER IRVINE</h2> + +<div> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> + +<h4>AUTHOR OF "FROM THE BOTTOM UP," ETC.</h4> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 75px;"> +<img src="images/tp1.png" width="75" height="74" alt="" title="Publisher's Device" /> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<h4>NEW YORK<br /> +THE CENTURY CO.<br /> +1914</h4> + +<hr /> + + +<h5>Copyright 1913, by<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Century Co.</span><br /> +<i>Published, August, 1913</i> +</h5> + + +<hr /> + +<h4><small>TO</small><br /> +LADY GREGORY<br /> +<small>AND</small><br /> +THE PLAYERS OF THE ABBEY THEATRE<br /> +<small>DUBLIN</small> +</h4> + +<hr /> + +<div> +<br /><br /> +</div> + +<h4>FOREWORD</h4> +<p>This book is the torn manuscript of the most beautiful life I ever knew. +I have merely pieced and patched it together, and have not even changed +or disguised the names of the little group of neighbors who lived with +us, at "the bottom of the world." <span style="text-align: right; left: 86%; position: absolute;">A. I.</span> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class = "center"> +<table class="toc" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Contents"> + <tr><td align="left" colspan="2">CHAPTER</td> + <td align="right">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Love is Enough</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">3</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_II"><span class="smcap">The Wolf and the Carpenter</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">21</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_III"><span class="smcap">Rehearsing for the Show</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">38</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><span class="smcap">Sunday in Pogue's Entry</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">63</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_V"><span class="smcap">His Arm is not Shortened</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">85</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><span class="smcap">The Apotheosis of Hughie Thornton</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">110</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><span class="smcap">In the Glow of a Peat Fire</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">133</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><span class="smcap">The Wind Bloweth Where it Listeth</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">153</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><span class="smcap">"Beyond th' Meadows an' th' Clouds"</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">171</td> + </tr> + <tr><td class="tocname"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X</a></td> + <td align='left'><a href="#CHAPTER_X"><span class="smcap">The Empty Corner</span></a></td> + <td class="tocpage">198</td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> +</div> +<h2>MY LADY OF<br /> +THE CHIMNEY-CORNER</h2> + +<h4>A STORY OF LOVE AND POVERTY IN IRISH PEASANT LIFE</h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h4>LOVE IS ENOUGH</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop01.png" width="100" height="93" alt="A" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">nna's</span> purty, an' she's good as well as purty, but th' beauty an' +goodness that's hers is short lived, I'm thinkin'," said old Bridget +McGrady to her neighbor Mrs. Tierney, as Mrs. Gilmore passed the door, +leading her five-year-old girl, Anna, by the hand. The old women were +sitting on the doorstep as the worshipers came down the lane from early +mass on a summer morning.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>"Thrue for you, Bridget, for th' do say that th' Virgin takes all sich +childther before they're ten."</p> + +<p>"Musha, but Mrs. Gilmore'll take on terrible," continued Mrs. Tierney, +"but th' will of God must be done."</p> + +<p>Anna was dressed in a dainty pink dress. A wide blue ribbon kept her +wealth of jet black hair in order as it hung down her back and the +squeaking of her little shoes drew attention to the fact that they were +new and in the fashion.</p> + +<p>"It's a mortal pity she's a girl," said Bridget, "bekase she might hev +been an althar boy before she goes."</p> + +<p>"Aye, but if she was a bhoy shure there's no tellin' what divilmint +she'd get into; so maybe it's just as well."</p> + +<p>The Gilmores lived on a small farm near Crumlin in County Antrim. They +were not considered "well to do," neither were they poor. They worked +hard and by dint of economy managed to keep their children at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> school. +Anna was a favorite child. Her quiet demeanor and gentle disposition +drew to her many considerations denied the rest of the family. She was a +favorite in the community. By the old women she was considered "too good +to live"; she took "kindly" to the house of God. Her teacher said, "Anna +has a great head for learning." This expression, oft repeated, gave the +Gilmores an ambition to prepare Anna for teaching. Despite the schedule +arranged for her she was confirmed in the parish chapel at the age of +ten. At fifteen she had exhausted the educational facilities of the +community and set her heart on institutions of higher learning in the +larger cities. While her parents were figuring that way the boys of the +parish were figuring in a different direction. Before Anna was seventeen +there was scarcely a boy living within miles who had not at one time or +another lingered around the gate of the Gilmore garden. Mrs. Gilmore +watched Anna<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> carefully. She warned her against the danger of an +alliance with a boy of a lower station. The girl was devoted to the +Church. She knew her Book of Devotions as few of the older people knew +it, and before she was twelve she had read the Lives of the Saints. None +of these things made her an ascetic. She could laugh heartily and had a +keen sense of humor.</p> + +<p>The old women revised their prophecies. They now spoke of her "takin' +th' veil." Some said she would make "a gey good schoolmisthress," for +she was fond of children.</p> + +<p>While waiting the completion of arrangements to continue her schooling, +she helped her mother with the household work. She spent a good deal of +her time, too, in helping the old and disabled of the village. She +carried water to them from the village well and tidied up their cottages +at least once a week.</p> + +<p>The village well was the point of depart<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>ure in many a romance. There +the boys and girls met several times a day. Many a boy's first act of +chivalry was to take the girl's place under the hoop that kept the cans +apart and carry home the supply of water.</p> + +<p>Half a century after the incident that played havoc with the dreams and +visions of which she was the central figure, Anna said to me:</p> + +<p>"I was fillin' my cans at th' well. He was standin' there lukin' at me.</p> + +<p>"'Wud ye mind,' says he, 'if I helped ye?'</p> + +<p>"'Deed no, not at all,' says I. So he filled my cans an' then says he: +'I would give you a nice wee cow if I cud carry thim home fur ye.'</p> + +<p>"'It's not home I'm goin',' says I, 'but to an' oul neighbor who can't +carry it herself.'</p> + +<p>"'So much th' betther fur me,' says he, an' off he walked between the +cans. At<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> Mary McKinstry's doore that afthernoon we stood till the +shadows began t' fall."</p> + +<p>From the accounts rendered, old Mary did not lack for water-carriers for +months after that. One evening Mary made tea for the water-carriers and +after tea she "tossed th' cups" for them.</p> + +<p>"Here's two roads, dear," she said to Anna, "an' wan day ye'll haave t' +choose betwixt thim. On wan road there's love an' clane teeth (poverty), +an' on t'other riches an' hell on earth."</p> + +<p>"What else do you see on the roads, Mary?" Anna asked.</p> + +<p>"Plenty ov childther on th' road t' clane teeth, an' dogs an' cats on +th' road t' good livin'."</p> + +<p>"What haave ye fur me, Mary?" Jamie Irvine, Anna's friend, asked. She +took his cup, gave it a shake, looked wise and said: "Begorra, I see a +big cup, me bhoy—it's a cup o' grief I'm thinkin' it is."</p> + +<p>"Oul Mary was jist bletherin'," he said,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> as they walked down the road +in the gloaming, hand in hand.</p> + +<p>"A cup of sorrow isn't so bad, Jamie, when there's two to drink it," +Anna said. He pressed her hand tighter and replied:</p> + +<p>"Aye, that's thrue, fur then it's only half a cup."</p> + +<p>Jamie was a shoemaker's apprentice. His parents were very poor. The +struggle for existence left time for nothing else. As the children +reached the age of eight or nine they entered the struggle. Jamie began +when he was eight. He had never spent a day at school. His family +considered him fortunate, however, that he could be an apprentice.</p> + +<p>The cup that old Mary saw in the tea leaves seemed something more than +"blether" when it was noised abroad that Anna and Jamie were to be +married.</p> + +<p>The Gilmores strenuously objected. They objected because they had +another career mapped out for Anna. Jamie was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> illiterate, too, and she +was well educated. He was a Protestant and she an ardent Catholic. +Illiteracy was common enough and might be overlooked, but a mixed +marriage was unthinkable.</p> + +<p>The Irvines, on the other hand, although very poor, could see nothing +but disaster in marriage with a Catholic, even though she was as "pure +and beautiful as the Virgin."</p> + +<p>"It's a shame an' a scandal," others said, "that a young fella who can't +read his own name shud marry sich a nice girl wi' sich larnin'."</p> + +<p>Jamie made some defense but it wasn't convincing.</p> + +<p>"Doesn't the Bible say maan an' wife are wan?" he asked Mrs. Gilmore in +discussing the question with her.</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"Well, when Anna an' me are wan won't she haave a thrade an' won't I +haave an education?"</p> + +<p>"That's wan way ov lukin' at a vexed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> question, but you're th' only wan +that luks at it that way!"</p> + +<p>"There's two," Anna said. "That's how I see it."</p> + +<p>When Jamie became a journeyman shoemaker, the priest was asked to +perform the marriage ceremony. He refused and there was nothing left to +do but get a man who would give love as big a place as religion, and +they were married by the vicar of the parish church.</p> + +<p>Not in the memory of man in that community had a wedding created so +little interest in one way and so much in another. They were both +"turncoats," the people said, and they were shunned by both sides. So +they drank their first big draft of the "cup o' grief" on their +wedding-day.</p> + +<p>"Sufferin' will be yer portion in this world," Anna's mother told her, +"an' in th' world t' come separation from yer maan."</p> + +<p>Anna kissed her mother and said:</p> + +<p>"I've made my choice, mother, I've<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> made it before God, and as for +Jamie's welfare in the next world, I'm sure that love like his would +turn either Limbo, Purgatory or Hell into a very nice place to live in!"</p> + +<p>A few days after the wedding the young couple went out to the four +cross-roads. Jamie stood his staff on end and said:</p> + +<p>"Are ye ready, dear?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, I'm ready, but don't tip it in the direction of your preference!" +He was inclined toward Dublin, she toward Belfast. They laughed. Jamie +suddenly took his hand from the staff and it fell, neither toward +Belfast nor Dublin, but toward the town of Antrim, and toward Antrim +they set out on foot. It was a distance of less than ten miles, but it +was the longest journey she ever took—and the shortest, for she had all +the world beside her, and so had Jamie. It was in June, and they had all +the time there was. There was no hurry. They were as care-free as +children and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> utilized their freedom in full. Between Moira and Antrim +they came to Willie Withero's stone pile. Willie was Antrim's most noted +stone-breaker in those days. He was one of the town's news centers. At +his stone-pile he got the news going and coming. He was a strange +mixture of philosophy and cynicism. He had a rough exterior and spoke in +short, curt, snappish sentences, but behind it all he had a big heart +full of kindly human feeling.</p> + +<p>"Anthrim's a purty good place fur pigs an' sich to live in," he told the +travelers. "Ye see, pigs is naither Fenians nor Orangemen. I get along +purty well m'self bekase I sit on both sides ov th' fence at th' same +time."</p> + +<p>"How do you do it, Misther Withero?" Anna asked demurely.</p> + +<p>"Don't call me 'Misther,'" Willie said; "only quality calls me 'Misther' +an' I don't like it—it doesn't fit an honest stone breaker." The +question was repeated and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> he said: "I wear a green ribbon on Pathrick's +Day an' an orange cockade on th' Twelfth ov July, an' if th' ax m' why, +I tell thim t' go t' h—l! That's Withero fur ye an' wan ov 'im is +enough fur Anthrim, that's why I niver married, an' that'll save ye the +throuble ov axin' me whither I've got a wife or no!"</p> + +<p>"What church d'ye attend, Willie?" Jamie asked.</p> + +<p>"Church is it, ye're axin' about? Luk here, me bhoy, step over th' +stile." Willie led the way over into the field.</p> + +<p>"Step over here, me girl." Anna followed. A few yards from the hedge +there was an ant-hill.</p> + +<p>"See thim ants?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"Now if Withero thought thim ants hated aych other like th' men ov +Anthrim d'ye know what I'd do?"</p> + +<p>"What?"</p> + +<p>"I'd pour a kittle ov boilin' wather on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> thim an' roast th' hides off +ivery mother's son ov thim. Aye, that's what I'd do, shure as gun's +iron!"</p> + +<p>"That would be a sure and speedy cure," Anna said, smiling.</p> + +<p>"What's this world but an ant-hill?" he asked. "Jist a big ant-hill an' +we're ants begorra an' uncles, but instead ov workin' like these wee +fellas do—help aych other an' shouldther aych other's burdens, an' +build up th' town, an' forage fur fodder, begobs we cut aych other's +throats over th' color ov ribbon or th' kind ov a church we attind! Ugh, +what balderdash!"</p> + +<p>The stone-breaker dropped on his knees beside the ant-hill and eyed the +manœuvering of the ants.</p> + +<p>"Luk here!" he said.</p> + +<p>They looked in the direction of his pointed finger and observed an ant +dragging a dead fly over the hill.</p> + +<p>"Jist watch that wee fella!" They watched. The ant had a big job, but +it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> pulled and pushed the big awkward carcass over the side of the hill. +A second ant came along, sized up the situation, and took a hand. "Ha, +ha!" he chortled, "that's th' ticket, now kape yez eye on him!"</p> + +<p>The ants dragged the fly over the top of the hill and stuffed it down a +hole.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Withero, "if a fella in Anthrim wanted a han' th' other +fellah wud say: 'Where d'ye hing yer hat up on Sunday?' or some other +sich fool question!"</p> + +<p>"He wud that."</p> + +<p>"Now mind ye, I'm not huffed at th' churches, aither Orange or Green, or +th' praychers aither—tho 'pon m' sowl ivery time I luk at wan o' thim I +think ov God as a first class journeyman tailor! But I get more good +switherin' over an ant-hill than whin wan o' thim wee praychers thry t' +make me feel as miserable as th' divil!"</p> + +<p>"There's somethin' in that," Jamie said.</p> + +<p>"Aye, ye kin bate a pair ov oul boots there is!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>"What will th' ants do wi' th' fly?" Jamie asked.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" he grunted with an air of authority, "they'll haave rump steaks +fur tay and fly broth fur breakvist th' morra!"</p> + +<p>"Th' don't need praychers down there, do th', Willie?"</p> + +<p>"Don't need thim up here!" he said. "They're sign-boards t' point th' +way that iverybody knows as well as th' nose on his face!"</p> + +<p>"Good-by," Anna said, as they prepared to leave.</p> + +<p>"Good-by, an' God save ye both kindly," were Willie's parting words. He +adjusted the wire protectors to his eyes and the sojourners went on down +the road.</p> + +<p>They found a mossy bank and unpacked their dinner.</p> + +<p>"Quare, isn't he?" Jamie said.</p> + +<p>"He has more sense than any of our people."</p> + +<p>"That's no compliment t' Withero,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> Anna, but I was jist thinkin' about +our case; we've got t' decide somethin' an' we might as well decide it +here as aanywhere."</p> + +<p>"About religion, Jamie?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"I've decided."</p> + +<p>"When?"</p> + +<p>"At the ant-hill."</p> + +<p>"Ye cudn't be Withero?"</p> + +<p>"No, dear, Willie sees only half th' world. There's love in it that's +bigger than color of ribbon or creed of church. We've proven that, +Jamie, haven't we?"</p> + +<p>"But what haave ye decided?"</p> + +<p>"That love is bigger than religion. That two things are sure. One is +love of God. He loves all His children and gets huffed at none. The +other is that the love we have for each other is of the same warp and +woof as His for us, and <i>love is enough</i>, Jamie."</p> + +<p>"Aye, love is shure enough an' enough's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> as good as a faste, but what +about childther if th' come, Anna?"</p> + +<p>"We don't cross a stile till we come to it, do we?"</p> + +<p>"That's right, that's right, acushla; now we're as rich as lords, aren't +we, but I'm th' richest, amn't I? I've got you an' you've only got me."</p> + +<p>"I've got book learning, but you've got love and a trade, what more do I +want? You've got more love than any man that ever wooed a woman—so I'm +richer, amn't I?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, God," Jamie said, "but isn't this th' lovely world, eh, Anna?"</p> + +<p>Within a mile of Antrim they saw a cottage, perched on a high bluff by +the roadside. It was reached by stone steps. They climbed the steps to +ask for a drink of water. They were kindly received. The owner was a +follower of Wesley and his conversation at the well was in sharp +contrast to the philosophy at the stone-pile.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> The young journeyman and +his wife were profoundly impressed with the place. The stone cottage was +vine-clad. There were beautiful trees and a garden. The June flowers +were in bloom and a cow grazed in the pasture near by.</p> + +<p>"Some day we'll haave a home like this," Jamie said as they descended +the steps. Anna named it "The Mount of Temptation," for it was the +nearest she had ever been to the sin of envy. A one-armed Crimean +pensioner named Steele occupied it during my youth. It could be seen +from Pogue's entry and Anna used to point it out and tell the story of +that memorable journey. In days when clouds were heavy and low and the +gaunt wolf stood at the door she would say: "Do you mind the journey to +Antrim, Jamie?"</p> + +<p>"Aye," he would say with a sigh, "an' we've been in love ever since, +haven't we, Anna?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h4>THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop02.png" width="100" height="100" alt="F" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">or</span> a year after their arrival in Antrim they lived in the home of the +master-shoemaker for whom Jamie worked as journeyman. It was a great +hardship, for there was no privacy and their daily walk and +conversation, in front of strangers, was of the "yea, yea" and "nay, +nay" order. In the summer time they spent their Sundays on the banks of +Lough Neagh, taking whatever food they needed and cooking it on the +sand. They continued their courting in that way. They watched the +water-fowl on the great wide marsh, they waded in the water and played +as children play. In more serious moods she read to him Moore's poems +and went over the later lessons of her school<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> life. Even with but part +of a day in each week together they were very happy. The world was full +of sunshine for them then. There were no clouds, no regrets, no fears. +It was a period—a brief period—that for the rest of their lives they +looked back upon as a time when they really lived. I am not sure, but I +am of the impression that the chief reason she could not be persuaded to +visit the Lough in later life was because she wanted to remember it as +she had seen it in that first year of their married life.</p> + +<p>Their first child was two years of age when the famine came—the famine +that swept over Ireland like a plague, leaving in its wake over a +million new-made graves. They had been in their own house for over a +year. It was scantily furnished, but it was <i>home</i>. As the ravages of +the famine spread, nearly every family in the town mourned the absence +of some member. Men and women met on the street, one day were gone the +next. Jamie put his bench<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> to one side and sought work at anything he +could get to do. Prices ran up beyond the possibilities of the poor. The +potato crop only failed. The other crops were reaped and the proceeds +sent to England as rent and interest, and the reapers having sent the +last farthing, lay down with their wives and children and died. Of the +million who died four hundred thousand were able-bodied men. The wolf +stood at every door. The carpenter alone was busy. Of course it was the +poor who died—the poor only. In her three years of married life Anna +realized in a measure that the future held little change for her or her +husband, but she saw a ray of hope for the boy in the cradle. When the +foodless days came and the child was not getting food enough to survive, +she gave vent to her feelings of despair. Jamie did not quite understand +when she spoke of the death of hope.</p> + +<p>"Spake what's in yer heart plainly, Anna!" he said plaintively.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>"Jamie, we must not blame each other for anything, but we must face the +fact—we live at the bottom of the world where every hope has a +headstone—a headstone that only waits for the name."</p> + +<p>"Aye, dear, God help us, I know, I know what ye mane."</p> + +<p>"Above and beyond us," she continued, "there is a world of nice +things—books, furniture, pictures—a world where people and things can +be kept clean, but it's a world we could never reach. But I had hope"—</p> + +<p>She buried her face in her hands and was silent.</p> + +<p>"Aye, aye, acushla, I know yer hope's in the boy, but don't give up. +We'll fight it out together if th' worst comes to th' worst. The boy'll +live, shure he will!"</p> + +<p>He could not bear the agony on her face. It distracted him. He went out +and sought solitude on a pile of stones back of the house. There was no +solitude there, nor could he have remained long if there had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> been. He +returned and drawing a stool up close beside her he sat down and put an +arm tenderly over her shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Cheer up, wee girl," he said, "our ship's comin' in soon."</p> + +<p>"If we can only save him!" she said, pointing to the cradle.</p> + +<p>"Well, we won't cry over spilt milk, dear—not at laste until it's +spilt."</p> + +<p>"Ah," she exclaimed, "I had such hopes for him!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, so haave I, but thin again I've thought t' myself, suppose th' wee +fella did get t' be kind-a quality like, wudn't he be ashamed ov me an' +you maybe, an' shure an ingrate that's somethin' is worse than nothin'!"</p> + +<p>"A child born in pure love couldn't be an ingrate, Jamie; that isn't +possible, dear."</p> + +<p>"Ah, who knows what a chile will be, Anna?"</p> + +<p>The child awoke and began to cry. It was a cry for food. There was +nothing in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> the house; there had been nothing all that day. They looked +at each other. Jamie turned away his face. He arose and left the house. +He went aimlessly down the street wondering where he should try for +something to eat for the child. There were several old friends whom he +supposed were in the same predicament, but to whom he had not appealed. +It was getting to be an old story. A score of as good children as his +had been buried. Everybody was polite, full of sympathy, but the child +was losing his vitality, so was the mother. Something desperate must be +done and done at once. For the third time he importuned a grocer at +whose shop he had spent much money. The grocer was just putting up the +window shutters for the night.</p> + +<p>"If ye cud jist spare us a ha'p'orth ov milk to keep th' life in th' +chile fur th' night?" he pleaded.</p> + +<p>"It wudn't be a thimbleful if I had it, Jamie, but I haven't—we haave +childther<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> ov our own, ye know, an' life is life!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, aye," he said, "I know, I know," and shuffled out again. Back to +the house he went. He lifted the latch gently and tiptoed in. Anna was +rocking the child to sleep. He went softly to the table and took up a +tin can and turned again toward the door.</p> + +<p>Anna divined his stealthy movement. She was beside him in an instant.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going, Jamie?" He hesitated. She forced an answer.</p> + +<p>"Jamie," she said in a tone new to her, "there's been nothing but truth +and love between us; I must know."</p> + +<p>"I'm goin' out wi' that can to get somethin' fur that chile, Anna, if I +haave t' swing fur it. That's what's in my mind an' God help me!"</p> + +<p>"God help us both," she said.</p> + +<p>He moved toward the street. She planted herself between him and the +door.</p> + +<p>"No, we must stand together. They'll<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> put you in jail and then the child +and I will die anyway. Let's wait another day!"</p> + +<p>They sat down together in the corner. It was dark now and they had no +candle. The last handful of turf was on the fire. They watched the +sparks play and the fitful spurts of flame light up for an instant at a +time the darkened home. It was a picture of despair—the first of a long +series that ran down the years with them. They sat in silence for a long +time. Then they whispered to each other with many a break the words they +had spoken in what now seemed to them the long ago. The fire died out. +They retired, but not to sleep. They were too hungry. There was an +insatiable gnawing at their vitals that made sleep impossible. It was +like a cancer with excruciating pain added. Sheer exhaustion only, +stilled the cries of the starving child. There were no more tears in +their eyes, but anguish has by-valves more keen, poignant and subtle.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>In agony they lay in silence and counted time by the repercussion of +pain until the welcome dawn came with its new supply of hope. The scream +of a frenzied mother who had lost a child in the night was the prelude +to a tragic day. Anna dressed quickly and in a few minutes stood by the +side of the woman. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do. It was her +turn. It would be Anna's next. All over the town the specter hovered. +Every day the reaper garnered a new harvest of human sheaves. Every day +the wolf barked. Every day the carpenter came.</p> + +<p>When Anna returned Jamie had gone. She took her station by the child. +Jamie took the tin can and went out along the Gray-stone road for about +a mile and entered a pasture where three cows were grazing. He was weak +and nervous. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled. He had +never milked a cow. He had no idea of the difficulty involved in +catching a cow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> and milking her in a pasture. There was the milk and +yonder his child, who without it would not survive the day. Desperation +dominated and directed every movement.</p> + +<p>The cows walked away as he approached. He followed. He drove them into a +corner of the field and managed to get his hand on one. He tried to pet +her, but the jingling of the can frightened her and off they went—all +of them—on a fast trot along the side of the field. He became cautious +as he cornered them a second time. This time he succeeded in reaching an +udder. He got a tit in his hand. He lowered himself to his haunches and +proceeded to tug vigorously. His hand was waxy and stuck as if glued to +the flesh. Before there was any sign of milk the cow gave him a swift +kick that sent him flat on his back. By the time he pulled himself +together again the cows were galloping to the other end of the pasture.</p> + +<p>"God!" he muttered as he mopped the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> sweat from his face with his +sleeve, "if ye've got aany pity or kindly feelin' giv me a sup ov that +milk fur m' chile! Come on!"</p> + +<p>His legs trembled so that he could scarcely stand. Again he approached. +The cows eyed him with sullen concern. They were thoroughly scared now +and he couldn't get near enough to lay a hand on any of them. He stood +in despair, trembling from head to foot. He realized that what he would +do he must do quickly.</p> + +<p>The morning had swift wings—it was flying away. Some one would be out +for the cows ere long and his last chance would be gone. He dropped the +can and ran to the farm-house. There was a stack-yard in the rear. He +entered and took a rope from a stack. It was a long rope—too long for +his use, but he did not want to destroy its usefulness. He dragged it +through the hedge after him. This time with care and caution he got near +enough to throw the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> rope over the horns of a cow. Leading her to a +fence he tied her to it and began again. It came slowly. His strength +was almost gone. He went from one side to the other—now at one tit, now +at another. From his haunches he went to his knees and from that +position he stretched out his legs and sat flat on the grass. He no +sooner had a good position than the cow would change hers. She trampled +on his legs and swerved from side to side, but he held on. It was a life +and death struggle. The little milk at the bottom of the can gave him +strength and courage. As he literally pulled it out of her his strength +increased. When the can was half full he turned the cow loose and made +for the gap in the hedge. Within a yard of it he heard the loud report +of a gun and the can dropped to the ground. The ball had plowed through +both lugs of the can disconnecting the wire handle. Not much of the milk +was lost. He picked up the can and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> started down the road as fast as his +legs could take him. He had only gone a hundred yards when a man stepped +out into the road and leveled a gun at him.</p> + +<p>"Another yard an' I'll blow yer brains out!" the man said.</p> + +<p>"Is this yer milk?" Jamie asked.</p> + +<p>"Aye, an' well ye know it's m' milk!"</p> + +<p>Jamie put the can down on the road and stood silent. The farmer +delivered himself of a volume of profane abuse. Jamie did not reply. He +stood with his head bowed and to all appearances in a mood of penitence.</p> + +<p>When the man finished his threats and abuse he stooped to pick up the +can. Before his hand touched it Jamie sprang at him with the ferocity of +a panther. There was a life and death tussle for a few seconds and both +men went down on the road—Jamie on top. Sitting on the man's chest he +took a wrist in each hand and pinned him to the ground.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>"Ye think I'm a thief," he said to the man as he looked at him with eyes +that burned like live coals. "I'm not, I'm an honest maan, but I haave a +chile dying wi' hunger—now it's your life or his, by —— an' ye'll +decide!"</p> + +<p>"I think yer a liar as well as a thief," the man said, "but if we can +prove what ye say I'm yer friend."</p> + +<p>"Will ye go with me?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"D'ye mane it?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, I do!"</p> + +<p>"I'll carry th' gun."</p> + +<p>"Ye may, there's nothin' in it."</p> + +<p>"There's enough in th' butt t' batther a maan's brains out."</p> + +<p>Jamie seized the gun and the can and the man got up.</p> + +<p>They walked down the road in silence, each watching the other out of the +corners of his eyes.</p> + +<p>"D'ye believe in God?" Jamie asked ab<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>ruptly. The farmer hesitated +before answering.</p> + +<p>"Why d'ye ask?"</p> + +<p>"I'd like t' see a maan in these times that believed wi' his heart +insted ov his mouth!"</p> + +<p>"Wud he let other people milk his cows?" asked the man, sneeringly.</p> + +<p>"He mightn't haave cows t' milk," Jamie said. "But he'd be kind and not +a glutton!"</p> + +<p>They arrived at the house. The man went in first. He stopped near the +door and Jamie instinctively and in fear shot past him. What he saw +dazed him. "Ah, God!" he exclaimed. "She's dead!"</p> + +<p>Anna lay on her back on the floor and the boy was asleep by the hearth +with his head in the ashes. The neighbors were alarmed and came to +assist. The farmer felt Anna's pulse. It was feebly fluttering.</p> + +<p>"She's not dead," he said. "Get some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> cold wather quickly!" They dashed +the water in her face and brought her back to consciousness. When she +looked around she said:</p> + +<p>"Who's this kind man come in to help, Jamie?"</p> + +<p>"He's a farmer," Jamie said, "an' he's brot ye a pint ov nice fresh +milk!" The man had filled a cup with milk and put it to Anna's lips. She +refused. "He's dying," she said, pointing to the boy, who lay limp on +the lap of a neighbor. The child was drowsy and listless. They gave him +the cup of milk. He had scarcely enough strength to drink. Anna drank +what was left, which was very little.</p> + +<p>"God bless you!" Anna said as she held out her hand to the farmer.</p> + +<p>"God save you kindly," he answered as he took her hand and bowed his +head.</p> + +<p>"I've a wife an' wains myself," he continued, "but we're not s' bad off +on a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> farm." Turning to Jamie he said: "Yer a Protestant!"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"An' I'm a Fenian, but we're in t' face ov bigger things!"</p> + +<p>He extended his hand. Jamie clasped it, the men looked into each other's +faces and understood.</p> + +<p>That night in the dusk, the Fenian farmer brought a sack of potatoes and +a quart of fresh milk and the spark of life was prolonged.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h4>REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop03.png" width="100" height="98" alt="F" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">amine</span> not only carried off a million of the living, but it claimed also +the unborn. Anna's second child was born a few months after the siege +was broken, but the child had been starved in its mother's womb and +lived only three months. There was no wake. Wakes are for older people. +There were no candles to burn, no extra sheet to put over the old +dresser, and no clock to stop at the moment of death.</p> + +<p>The little wasted thing lay in its undressed pine coffin on the table +and the neighbors came in and had a look. Custom said it should be kept +the allotted time and the tyrant was obeyed. A dozen of those to whom a +wake was a means of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> change and recreation came late and planted +themselves for the night.</p> + +<p>"Ye didn't haave a hard time wi' th' second, did ye, Anna?" asked Mrs. +Mulholland.</p> + +<p>"No," Anna said quietly.</p> + +<p>"Th' hard times play'd th' divil wi' it before it was born, I'll be +bound," said a second.</p> + +<p>A third averred that the child was "the very spit out of its father's +mouth." Ghost stories, stories of the famine, of hard luck, of hunger, +of pain and the thousand and one aspects of social and personal sorrow +had the changes rung on them.</p> + +<p>Anna sat in the corner. She had to listen, she had to answer when +directly addressed and the prevailing idea of politeness made her the +center of every story and the object of every moral!</p> + +<p>The refreshments were all distributed and diplomatically the mourners +were informed that there was nothing more;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> nevertheless they stayed on +and on. Nerve-racked and unstrung, Anna staggered to her feet and took +Jamie to the door.</p> + +<p>"I'll go mad, dear, if I have to stand it all night!"</p> + +<p>They dared not be discourteous. A reputation for heartlessness would +have followed Anna to the grave if she had gone to bed while the dead +child lay there.</p> + +<p>Withero had been at old William Farren's wake and was going home when he +saw Anna and Jamie at the door. They explained the situation.</p> + +<p>"Take a dandther down toward th' church," he said, "an' then come back."</p> + +<p>Willie entered the house in an apparently breathless condition.</p> + +<p>"Yer takin' it purty aisy here," he said, "whin 'Jowler' Hainey's +killin' his wife an' wreckin' th' house!"</p> + +<p>In about two minutes he was alone. He put a coal in his pipe and smoked +for a minute. Then he went over to the little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> coffin. He took his pipe +out of his mouth, laid it on the mantel-shelf and returned. The little +hands were folded. He unclasped them, took one of them in his rough +calloused palm.</p> + +<p>"Poore wee thing," he said in an undertone, "poore wee thing." He put +the hands as he found them. Still looking at the little baby face he +added:</p> + +<p>"Heigho, heigho, it's bad, purty bad, but it's worse where there isn't +even a dead wan!"</p> + +<p>When Anna returned she lay down on her bed, dressed as she was, and +Jamie and Withero kept the vigil—with the door barred. Next morning at +the earliest respectable hour Withero carried the little coffin under +his arm and Jamie walked beside him to the graveyard.</p> + +<p>During the fifteen years that followed the burial of "the famine child" +they buried three others and saved three—four living and four dead.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>I was the ninth child. Anna gave me a Greek name which means "Helper of +men."</p> + +<p>Shortly after my arrival in Scott's entry, they moved to Pogue's entry. +The stone cabin was thatch-covered and measured about twelve by sixteen +feet. The space comprised three apartments. One, a bedroom; over the +bedroom and beneath the thatch a little loft that served as a bedroom to +those of climbing age. The rest of it was workshop, dining-room, +sitting-room, parlor and general community news center. The old folks +slept in a bed, the rest of us slept on the floor and beneath the +thatch. Between the bedroom door and the open fireplace was the +chimney-corner. Near the door stood an old pine table and some dressers. +They stood against the wall and were filled with crockery. We never +owned a chair. There were several pine stools, a few creepies (small +stools), and a long bench that ran along the bed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>room wall, from the +chimney corner to the bedroom door. The mud floor never had the luxury +of a covering, nor did a picture ever adorn the bare walls. When the +floor needed patching, Jamie went to somebody's garden, brought a +shovelful of earth, mixed it and filled the holes. The stools and +creepies were scrubbed once a week, the table once a day. I could draw +an outline of that old table now and accurately mark every dent and +crack in it. I do not know where it came from, but each of us had a +<i>hope</i> that one day we should possess a pig. We built around the hope a +sty and placed it against the end of the cabin. The pig never turned up, +but the hope lived there throughout a generation!</p> + +<p>We owned a goat once. In three months it reduced the smooth kindly +feeling in Pogue's entry to the point of total eclipse. We sold it and +spent a year in winning back old friends. We had a garden. It measured +thirty-six by sixteen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> inches, and was just outside the front window. At +one end was a small currant bush and in the rest of the space Anna grew +an annual crop of nasturtiums.</p> + +<p>Once we were prosperous. That was when two older brothers worked with my +father at shoemaking. I remember them, on winter nights, sitting around +the big candlestick—one of the three always singing folk-songs as he +worked. As they worked near the window, Anna sat in her corner and by +the light of a candle in her little sconce made waxed ends for the men. +I browsed among the lasts, clipping, cutting and scratching old leather +parings and dreaming of the wonderful days beyond when I too could make +a boot and sing "Black-eyed Susan."</p> + +<p>Then the news came—news of a revolution.</p> + +<p>"They're making boots by machinery now," Anna said one day.</p> + +<p>"It's dotin' ye are, Anna," Jamie replied. She read the account.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>"How cud a machine make a boot, Anna?" he asked in bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"I don't know, dear."</p> + +<p>Barney McQuillan was the village authority on such things. When he told +Jamie, he looked aghast and said, "How quare!"</p> + +<p>Then makers became menders—shoemakers became cobblers. There was +something of magic and romance in the news that a machine could turn out +as much work as twenty-five men, but when my brothers moved away to +other parts of the world to find work, the romance was rubbed off.</p> + +<p>"Maybe we can get a machine?" Jamie said.</p> + +<p>"Aye, but shure ye'd have to get a factory to put it in!"</p> + +<p>"Is that so?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, an' we find it hard enough t' pay fur what we're in now!"</p> + +<p>Barney McQuillan was the master-shoe-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>maker in our town who was best +able to readjust himself to changed conditions. He became a +master-cobbler and doled out what he took in to men like Jamie. He kept +a dozen men at work, making a little off each, just as the owner of the +machine did in the factory. In each case the need of skill vanished and +the power of capital advanced. Jamie dumbly took what was left—cobbling +for Barney. To Anna the whole thing meant merely the death of a few more +hopes. For over twenty years she had fought a good fight, a fight in +which she played a losing part, though she was never wholly defeated.</p> + +<p>Her first fight was against slang and slovenly speech. She started early +in their married life to correct Jamie. He tried hard and often, but he +found it difficult to speak one language to his wife and another to his +customers. From the lips of Anna, it sounded all right, but the same +pronun<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>ciation by Jamie seemed affected and his customers gaped at him.</p> + +<p>Then she directed her efforts anew to the children. One after another +she corrected their grammar and pronunciation, corrected them every day +and every hour of the day that they were in her presence. Here again she +was doomed to failure. The children lived on the street and spoke its +language. It seemed a hopeless task. She never whined over it. She was +too busy cleaning, cooking, sewing and at odd times helping Jamie, but +night after night for nearly a generation she took stock of a life's +effort and each milestone on the way spelt failure. She could see no +light—not a glimmer. Not only had she failed to impress her language +upon others, but she found herself gradually succumbing to her +environment and actually lapsing into vulgar forms herself. There was a +larger and more vital conflict than the one she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> had lost. It was the +fight against dirt. In such small quarters, with so many children and +such activity in work she fought against great odds. Bathing facilities +were almost impossible: water had to be brought from the town well, +except what fell on the roof, and that was saved for washing clothes. +Whatever bathing there was, was done in the tub in which Jamie steeped +his leather. We children were suspicious that when Jamie bathed Anna had +a hand in it. They had a joke between them that could only be explained +on that basis. She called it "grooming the elephant."</p> + +<p>"Jist wait, m' boy," she would say in a spirit of kindly banter, "till +the elephant has to be groomed, and I'll bring ye down a peg or two."</p> + +<p>There was a difference of opinion among them as to the training of +children.</p> + +<p>"No chile iver thrived on saft words," he said; "a wet welt is +betther."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>"Aye, yer wet welt stings th' flesh, Jamie, but it niver gets at a +chile's mind."</p> + +<p>"Thrue for you, but who th' —— kin get at a chile's mind?"</p> + +<p>One day I was chased into the house by a bigger boy. I had found a +farthing. He said it was his. The money was handed over and the boy left +with his tongue in his cheek. I was ordered to strip. When ready he laid +me across his knee and applied the "wet welt."</p> + +<p>An hour later it was discovered that a week had elapsed between the +losing and finding of the farthing. No sane person would believe that a +farthing could lie for a whole week on the streets of Antrim.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said, "ye need a warmin' like that ivery day, an' ye had nown +yestherday, did ye?"</p> + +<p>On another occasion I found a ball, one that had never been lost. A boy, +hoping to get me in front of my father, claimed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> the ball. My mother on +this occasion sat in judgment.</p> + +<p>"Where did <i>you</i> get the ball?" she asked the boy. He couldn't remember. +She probed for the truth, but neither of us would give in. When all +efforts failed she cut the ball in half and gave each a piece!</p> + +<p>"Nixt time I'll tell yer Dah," the boy said when he got outside, "he +makes you squeal like a pig."</p> + +<p>When times were good—when work and wages got a little ahead of hunger, +which was seldom, Anna baked her own bread. Three kinds of bread she +baked. "Soda,"—common flour bread, never in the shape of a loaf, but +bread that lay flat on the griddle; "pirta oaten"—made of flour and +oatmeal; and "fadge"—potato bread. She always sung while baking and she +sang the most melancholy and plaintive airs. As she baked and sang I +stood beside her on a creepie watching the process and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> awaiting the +end, for at the close of each batch of bread I always had my +"duragh"—an extra piece.</p> + +<p>When hunger got ahead of wages the family bread was bought at Sam +Johnson's bakery. The journey to Sam's was full of temptation to me. +Hungry and with a vested interest in the loaf on my arm, I was not over +punctilious in details of the moral law. Anna pointed out the +opportunities of such a journey. It was a chance to try my mettle with +the arch tempter. It was a mental gymnasium in which moral muscle got +strength. There wasn't in all Ireland a mile of highway so well paved +with good intentions. I used to start out, well keyed up morally and +humming over and over the order of the day. When, on the home stretch, I +had made a dent in Sam's architecture, I would lay the loaf down on the +table, good side toward my mother. While I was doing that she had read +the story of the fall on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> my face. I could feel her penetrating gaze.</p> + +<p>"So he got ye, did he?"</p> + +<p>"Aye," I would say in a voice too low to be heard by my father.</p> + +<p>The order at Sam's was usually a sixpenny loaf, three ha'pence worth of +tea and sugar and half an ounce of tobacco.</p> + +<p>There were times when Barney had no work for my father, and on such +occasions I came home empty-handed. Then Jamie would go out to find work +as a day laborer. Periods like these were glossed over by Anna's humor +and wit. As they sat around the table, eating "stir-about" without milk, +or bread without tea, Jamie would grunt and complain.</p> + +<p>"Aye, faith," Anna would say, "it's purty bad, but it's worse where +there's none at all!"</p> + +<p>When the wolf lingered long at the door I went foraging—foraging as +forages a hungry dog and in the same places.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> Around the hovels of the +poor where dogs have clean teeth a boy has little chance. One day, +having exhausted the ordinary channels of relief without success, I +betook myself to the old swimming-hole on the mill race. The boys had a +custom of taking a "shiverin' bite" when they went bathing. It was on a +Sunday afternoon in July and quite a crowd sat around the hole. I +neither needed nor wanted a bath—I wanted a bite. No one offered a +share of his crust. A big boy named Healy was telling of his prowess as +a fighter.</p> + +<p>"I'll fight ye fur a penny!" said I.</p> + +<p>"Where's yer penny?" said Healy.</p> + +<p>"I'll get it th' morra."</p> + +<p>A man seeing the difficulty and willing to invest in a scrap advanced +the wager. I was utterly outclassed and beaten. Peeling my clothes off I +went into the race for a swim and to wash the blood off. When I came out +Healy had hidden my trousers. I searched for hours in vain. The man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> who +paid the wager gave me an extra penny and I went home holding my jacket +in front of my legs. The penny saved me from a "warming," but Anna, +feeling that some extra discipline was necessary, made me a pair of +trousers out of an old potato sack.</p> + +<p>"That's sackcloth, dear," she said, "an' ye can aither sit in th' ashes +in them or wear them in earning another pair! Hold fast t' yer penny!"</p> + +<p>In this penitential outfit I had to sell my papers. Every fiber of my +being tingled with shame and humiliation. I didn't complain of the +penance, but I swore vengeance on Healy. She worked the desire for +vengeance out of my system in her chimney-corner by reading to me often +enough, so that I memorized the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah. Miss +McGee, the postmistress, gave me sixpence for the accomplishment and +that went toward a new pair of trousers. Concerning Healy,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> Anna said: +"Bate 'im with a betther brain, dear!"</p> + +<p>Despite my fistic encounters, my dents in the family loaves, my shinny, +my marbles and the various signs of total or at least partial depravity, +Anna clung to the hope that out of this thing might finally come what +she was looking, praying and hoping for.</p> + +<p>An item on the credit side of my ledger was that I was born in a caul—a +thin filmy veil that covered me at birth. Of her twelve I was the only +one born in "luck." In a little purse she kept the caul, and on special +occasions she would exhibit it and enumerate the benefits and privileges +that went with it. Persons born in a caul were immune from being hung, +drawn and quartered, burned to death or lost at sea.</p> + +<p>It was on the basis of the caul I was rented to old Mary McDonagh. My +duty was to meet her every Monday morn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>ing. The meeting insured her luck +for the week. Mary was a huckster. She carried her shop on her arm—a +wicker basket in which she had thread, needles, ribbons and other things +which she sold to the farmers and folks away from the shopping center. +No one is lucky while bare-footed. Having no shoes I clattered down +Sandy Somerville's entry in my father's. At the first clatter, she came +out, basket on arm, and said:</p> + +<p>"Morra, bhoy, God's blessin' on ye!"</p> + +<p>"Morra, Mary, an' good luck t' ye," was my answer.</p> + +<p>I used to express my wonder that I couldn't turn this luck of a +dead-sure variety into a pair of shoes for myself.</p> + +<p>Anna said: "Yer luck, dear, isn't in what ye can get, but in what ye can +give!"</p> + +<p>When Antrim opened its first flower show I was a boy of all work at old +Mrs. Chaine's. The gardener was pleased with my work and gave me a +hothouse plant to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> put in competition. I carried it home proudly and +laid it down beside her in the chimney-corner.</p> + +<p>"The gerd'ner says it'll bate th' brains out on aany geranium in the +show!" I said.</p> + +<p>"Throth it will that, dear," she said, "but sure ye couldn't take a +prize fur it!"</p> + +<p>"Why?" I growled.</p> + +<p>"Ah, honey, shure everybody would know that ye didn't grow it—forby +they know that th' smoke in here would kill it in a few days."</p> + +<p>I sulked and protested.</p> + +<p>"That's a nice way t' throw cowld wather on th' chile," Jamie said. "Why +don't ye let 'im go on an' take his chances at the show?"</p> + +<p>A pained look overspread her features. It was as if he had struck her +with his fist. Her eyes filled with tears and she said huskily:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>"The whole world's a show, Jamie, an' this is the only place the wee +fella has to rehearse in."</p> + +<p>I sat down beside her and laid my head in her lap. She stroked it in +silence for a minute or two. I couldn't quite see, however, how I could +miss that show! She saw that after all I was determined to enter the +lists. She offered to put a card on it for me so that they would know +the name of the owner. This is what she wrote on the card:</p> + +<p>"This plant is lent for decorative purposes."</p> + +<p>That night there was an unusual atmosphere in her corner. She had a +newly tallied cap on her head and her little Sunday shawl over her +shoulders. Her candle was burning and the hearthstones had an extra coat +of whitewash. She drew me up close beside her and told me a story.</p> + +<p>"Once, a long, long time ago, God, feelin' tired, went to sleep an' had +a nice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> wee nap on His throne. His head was in His han's an' a wee white +cloud came down an' covered him up. Purty soon He wakes up an' says He:</p> + +<p>"'Where's Michael?'</p> + +<p>"'Here I am, Father!' said Michael.</p> + +<p>"'Michael, me boy,' says God, 'I want a chariot and a charioteer!'</p> + +<p>"'Right ye are!' says he. Up comes the purtiest chariot in the city of +Heaven an' finest charioteer.</p> + +<p>"'Me boy,' says God, 'take a million tons ov th' choicest seeds of th' +flowers of Heaven an' take a trip around th' world wi' them. Scatther +them,' says He, 'be th' roadsides an' th' wild places of th' earth where +my poor live.'</p> + +<p>"'Aye,' says the charioteer, 'that's jist like ye, Father. It's th' +purtiest job of m' afther-life an' I'll do it finely.'</p> + +<p>"'It's jist come t' Me in a dream,' says th' Father, 'that th' rich have +all the flowers down there and th' poor haave<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> nown at all. If a million +tons isn't enough take a billion tons!'"</p> + +<p>At this point I got in some questions about God's language and the kind +of flowers.</p> + +<p>"Well, dear," she said, "He spakes Irish t' Irish people and the +charioteer was an Irishman."</p> + +<p>"Maybe it was a wuman!" I ventured.</p> + +<p>"Aye, but there's no difference up there."</p> + +<p>"Th' flowers," she said, "were primroses, butthercups an' daisies an' +th' flowers that be handy t' th' poor, an' from that day to this there's +been flowers a-plenty for all of us everywhere!"</p> + +<p>"Now you go to-morra an' gether a basketful an' we'll fix them up in th' +shape of th' Pryamid of Egypt an' maybe ye'll get a prize."</p> + +<p>I spent the whole of the following day, from dawn to dark, roaming over +the wild<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> places near Antrim gathering the flowers of the poor. My +mother arranged them in a novel bouquet—a bouquet of wild flowers, the +base of it yellow primroses, the apex of pink shepherd's sundials, and +between the base and the apex one of the greatest variety of wild +flowers ever gotten together in that part of the world.</p> + +<p>It created a sensation and took first prize. At the close of the +exhibition Mrs. James Chaine distributed the prizes. When my name was +called I went forward slowly, blushing in my rags, and received a +twenty-four piece set of china! It gave me a fit! I took it home, put it +in her lap and danced. We held open house for a week, so that every man, +woman and child in the community could come in and "handle" it.</p> + +<p>Withero said we ought to save up and build a house to keep it in!</p> + +<p>She thought that a propitious time to explain the inscription she put on +the card.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>"Ah, thin," I said, "shure it's thrue what ye always say."</p> + +<p>"What's that, dear?"</p> + +<p>"It's nice t' be nice."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h4>SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop04.png" width="100" height="100" alt="J" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">amie</span> and Anna kept the Sabbath. It was a habit with them and the +children got it, one after another, as they came along. When the town +clock struck twelve on Saturday night the week's work was done. The +customers were given fair warning that at the hour of midnight the bench +would be put away until Monday morning. There was nothing theological +about the observance. It was a custom, not a code. Anna looked upon it +as an over-punctilious notion. More than once she was heard to say: "The +Sabbath was made for maan, Jamie, and not maan for th' Sabbath." His +answer had brevity and point. "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> don't care a damn what it was made +for, Anna, I'll quit at twelve." And he quit.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Anna would take an unfinished job and finish it herself. There +were things in cobbling she could do as well as Jamie. Her defense of +doing it in the early hours of the Sabbath was: "Sure God has more +important work to do than to sit up late to watch us mend the boots of +the poor; forby it's better to haave ye're boots mended an' go to church +than to sit in th' ashes on Sunday an' swallow the smoke of bad turf!"</p> + +<p>"Aye," Jamie would say, "it's jist wondtherful what we can do if we +haave th' right kind ov a conscience!"</p> + +<p>Jamie's first duty on Sunday was to clean out the thrush's cage. He was +very proud of Dicky and gave him a bath every morning and a house +cleaning on Sunday. We children loved Sunday. On that day Anna reigned. +She wore her little shawl over her shoulders and her hair was en<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>closed +in a newly tallied white cap. She smoked little, but on Sundays after +dinner she always had her "dhraw" with Jamie. Anna's Sunday chore was to +whitewash the hearthstones and clean the house. When the table was laid +for Sunday breakfast and the kettle hung on the chain singing and Anna +was in her glory of white linen, the children were supremely happy. In +their wildest dreams there was nothing quite as beautiful as that. +Whatever hunger, disappointment, or petty quarrel happened during the +week it was forgotten on Sunday. It was a day of supreme peace.</p> + +<p>Sunday breakfast was what she called a "puttiby," something light to +tide them over until dinner time. Dinner was the big meal of the week. +At every meal I sat beside my mother. If we had stir-about, I was +favored, but not enough to arouse jealousy: I scraped the pot. If it was +"tay," I got a few bits of the crust of Anna's bread. We called it +"scroof."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>About ten o'clock the preparations for the big dinner began. We had meat +once a week. At least it was the plan to have it so often. Of course +there were times when the plan didn't work, but when it did Sunday was +meat day. The word "meat" was never used. It was "kitchen" or "beef." +Both words meant the same thing, and bacon might be meant by either of +them.</p> + +<p>In nine cases out of ten, Sunday "kitchen" was a cow's head, a "calf's +head and pluck," a pair of cow's feet, a few sheep's "trotters" or a +quart of sheep's blood. Sometimes it was the entrails of a pig. Only +when there was no money for "kitchen" did we have blood. It was at first +fried and then made part of the broth.</p> + +<p>The broth-pot on Sunday was the center. The economic status of a family +could be as easily gaged by tasting their broth as by counting the +weekly income. Big money, good broth; little money, thin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> broth. The +slimmer the resource the fewer the ingredients. The pot was an index to +every condition and the talisman of every family. It was an opportunity +to show off. When Jamie donned a "dickey" once to attend a funeral and +came home with it in his pocket, no comment was made; but if Anna made +poor broth it was the talk of the entry for a week.</p> + +<p>Good broth consisted of "kitchen," barley, greens and lithing. Next to +"kitchen" barley was the most expensive ingredient. Folks in Pogue's +entry didn't always have it, but there were a number of cheap +substitutes, such as hard peas or horse beans. Amongst half a dozen +families in and around the entry there was a broth exchange. Each family +made a few extra quarts and exchanged them. They were distributed in +quart tin cans. Each can was emptied, washed, refilled and returned. Ann +O'Hare, the chimneysweep's wife, was usually first on hand. She had the +un<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>enviable reputation of being the "dhirtiest craither" in the +community. Jamie called her "Sooty Ann."</p> + +<p>"There's a gey good smell from yer pot, Anna," she said; "what haave ye +in it th' day?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, jist a few sheep's throtters and a wheen of nettles."</p> + +<p>"Who gethered th' nettles?"</p> + +<p>Anna pointed to me.</p> + +<p>"Did th' sting bad, me baughal?"</p> + +<p>"Ded no, not aany," I said.</p> + +<p>"Did ye squeeze thim tight?"</p> + +<p>"I put m' Dah's socks on m' han's."</p> + +<p>"Aye, that's a good thrick."</p> + +<p>Anna had a mouth that looked like a torn pocket. She could pucker it +into the queerest shapes. She smacked her thin blue lips, puckered her +mouth a number of times while Anna emptied and refilled the can.</p> + +<p>"If this is as good as it smells," she said as she went out, "I'll jist +sup it myself and let oul Billy go chase himself!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>Jamie was the family connoisseur in matters relating to broth. He tasted +Ann's. The family waited for the verdict.</p> + +<p>"Purty good barley an' lithin'," he said, "but it smells like Billy's +oul boots."</p> + +<p>"Shame on ye, Jamie," Anna said.</p> + +<p>"Well, give us your highfalutin' opinion ov it!" Anna sipped a spoonful +and remarked: "It might be worse."</p> + +<p>"Aye, it's worse where there's nown, but on yer oath now d'ye think +Sooty Ann washed her han's?"</p> + +<p>"Good clane dhirt will poison no one, Jamie."</p> + +<p>"Thrue, but this isn't clane dhirt, it's soot—bitther soot!"</p> + +<p>It was agreed to pass the O'Hare delection. When it cooled I quietly +gave it to my friend Rover—Mrs. Lorimer's dog.</p> + +<p>Hen Cassidy came next. Hen's mother was a widow who lived on the edge of +want. Hen and I did a little barter and exchange on the side, while Anna +emptied<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> and refilled his can. He had scarcely gone when the verdict was +rendered:</p> + +<p>"Bacon an' nettles," Jamie said, "she's as hard up as we are, this +week!"</p> + +<p>"Poor craither," Anna said; "I wondther if she's got aanything besides +broth?" Nobody knew. Anna thought she knew a way to find out.</p> + +<p>"Haave ye aany marbles, dear?" she asked me.</p> + +<p>"Aye, a wheen."</p> + +<p>"Wud ye give a wheen to me?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, are ye goin' t' shoot awhile? If ye are I'll give ye half an' +shoot ye fur thim!" I said.</p> + +<p>"No, I jist want t' borra some." I handed out a handful of marbles.</p> + +<p>"Now don't glunch, dear, when I tell ye what I want thim fur." I +promised.</p> + +<p>"Whistle fur Hen," she said, "and give him that han'ful of marbles if +he'll tell ye what his mother haas fur dinner th' day."</p> + +<p>I whistled and Hen responded.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>"I'll bate ye two chanies, Hen, that I know what ye've got fur dinner!"</p> + +<p>"I'll bate ye!" said Hen, "show yer chanies!"</p> + +<p>"Show yours!" said I.</p> + +<p>Hen had none, but I volunteered to trust him.</p> + +<p>"Go on now, guess!" said he.</p> + +<p>"Pirtas an' broth!" said I.</p> + +<p>"Yer blinked, ye cabbage head, we've got two yards ov thripe forby!"</p> + +<p>I carried two quarts to as many neighbors. Mary carried three. As they +were settling down to dinner Arthur Gainer arrived with his mother's +contribution. Jamie sampled it and laughed outright.</p> + +<p>"An oul cow put 'er feet in it," he said. Anna took a taste.</p> + +<p>"She didn't keep it in long aither," was her comment.</p> + +<p>"D'ye iver mind seein' barley in Gainer's broth?" Jamie asked.</p> + +<p>"I haave no recollection."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>"If there isn't a kink in m' power of remembrance," Jamie said, "they've +had nothin' but bacon an' nettles since th' big famine."</p> + +<p>"What did th' haave before that?" Anna asked.</p> + +<p>"Bacon an' nettles," he said.</p> + +<p>"Did ye ever think, Jamie, how like folks are to th' broth they make?"</p> + +<p>"No," he said, "but there's no raisin why people should sting jist +because they've got nothin' but nettles in their broth!"</p> + +<p>The potatoes were emptied out of the pot on the bare table, my father +encircling it with his arms to prevent them from rolling off. A little +pile of salt was placed beside each person and each had a big bowl full +of broth. The different kinds had lost their identity in the common pot.</p> + +<p>In the midst of the meal came visitors.</p> + +<p>"Much good may it do ye!" said Billy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> Baxter as he walked in with his +hands in his pockets.</p> + +<p>"Thank ye, Billy, haave a good bowl of broth?"</p> + +<p>"Thank ye, thank ye," he said. "I don't mind a good bowl ov broth, Anna, +but I'd prefer a bowl—jist a bowl of good broth!"</p> + +<p>"Ye've had larks for breakvist surely, haaven't ye, Billy?" Anna said.</p> + +<p>"No, I didn't, but there's a famine of good broth these days. When I was +young we had the rale McKie!" Billy took a bowl, nevertheless, and went +to Jamie's bench to "sup" it.</p> + +<p>Eliza Wallace, the fish woman, came in.</p> + +<p>"Much good may it do ye," she said.</p> + +<p>"Thank ye kindly, 'Liza, sit down an' haave a bowl of broth!" It was +baled out and Eliza sat down on the floor near the window.</p> + +<p>McGrath, the rag man, "dhrapped in." "Much good may it do ye!" he said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>"Thank ye kindly, Tom," Anna said, "ye'll surely have a bowl ov broth."</p> + +<p>"Jist wan spoonful," McGrath said. I emptied my bowl at a nod from Anna, +rinsed it out at the tub and filled it with broth. McGrath sat on the +doorstep.</p> + +<p>After the dinner Anna read a story from the <i>Weekly Budget</i> and the +family and guests sat around and listened. Then came the weekly +function, over which there invariably arose an altercation amongst the +children. It was the Sunday visit of the Methodist tract +distributor—Miss Clarke. It was not an unmixed dread, for sometimes she +brought a good story and the family enjoyed it. The usual row took place +as to who should go to the door and return the tract. It was finally +decided that I should face the ordeal. My preparation was to wash my +feet, rake my hair into order and soap it down, cover up a few holes and +await the gentle knock on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> the doorpost. It came and I bounded to the +door, tract in hand.</p> + +<p>"Good afternoon," she began, "did your mother read the tract this week?"</p> + +<p>"Yis, mem, an' she says it's fine."</p> + +<p>"Do you remember the name of it?"</p> + +<p>"'Get yer own Cherries,'" said I.</p> + +<p>"<i>B-u-y</i>," came the correction in clear tones from behind the partition.</p> + +<p>"'<i>Buy</i> yer own Cherries,' it is, mem."</p> + +<p>"That's better," the lady said. "Some people <i>get</i> cherries, other people <i>buy</i> them."</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>I never bought any. I knew every wild-cherry tree within twenty miles of +Antrim. The lady saw an opening and went in. "Did you ever get caught?" +she asked. I hung my head. Then followed a brief lecture on private +property—brief, for it was cut short by Anna, who, without any apology +or introduction, said as she confronted the slum evangel:</p> + +<p>"Is God our Father?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>"Yes, indeed," the lady answered.</p> + +<p>"An' we are all His childther?"</p> + +<p>"Assuredly."</p> + +<p>"Would ye starve yer brother Tom?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not."</p> + +<p>"But ye don't mind s' much th' starvation of all yer other wee brothers +an' sisters on th' streets, do ye?"</p> + +<p>There was a commotion behind the paper partition. The group stood in +breathless silence until the hunger question was put, then they +"dunched" each other and made faces. My father took a handful of my +hair, and gave it a good-natured but vigorous tug to prevent an +explosion.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Anna!" she said, "you are mistaken; I would starve nobody—and far +be it from me to accuse—"</p> + +<p>"Accuse," said Anna, raising her gentle voice. "Why, acushla, nobody +needs t' accuse th' poor; th' guilty need no accuser. We're convicted by +bein' poor, by bein' born poor an' dying poor, aren't we now?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>"With the Lord there is neither rich nor poor, Anna."</p> + +<p>"Aye, an' that's no news to me, but with good folks like you it's +different."</p> + +<p>"No, indeed, I assure you I think that exactly."</p> + +<p>"Well, now, if it makes no diff'rence, dear, why do ye come down Pogue's +entry like a bailiff or a process-sarver?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't, I just hinted—"</p> + +<p>"Aye, ye hinted an' a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Now tell +me truly an' cross yer heart—wud ye go to Ballycraigie doore an' talk +t' wee Willie Chaine as ye talked t' my bhoy jist now?"</p> + +<p>"No—"</p> + +<p>"No, 'deed ye wudn't for th' wudn't let ye, but because we've no choice +ye come down here like a petty sessions-magistrate an' make my bhoy feel +like a thief because he goes like a crow an' picks a wild cherry or a +sloe that wud rot on the tree. D'ye know Luke thirteen an' nineteen?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>The lady opened her Bible, but before she found the passage Anna was +reading from her old yellow backless Bible about the birds that lodged +in the branches of the trees.</p> + +<p>"Did they pay aany rent?" she asked as she closed the book. "Did th' +foxes have leases fur their holes?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"No, indeed, an' d'ye think He cares less fur boys than birds?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, an' ye know rightly that everything aroun' Antrim is jist a +demesne full o' pheasants an' rabbits for them quality t' shoot, an' we +git thransported if we get a male whin we're hungry!"</p> + +<p>The lady was tender-hearted and full of sympathy, but she hadn't +traveled along the same road as Anna and didn't know. Behind the screen +the group was jubilant, but when they saw the sympathy on the tract +woman's face they sobered and looked sad.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>"I must go," she said, "and God bless you, Anna," and Anna replied, "God +bless you kindly, dear."</p> + +<p>When Anna went behind the screen Jamie grabbed her and pressed her +closely to him. "Ye're a match for John Rae any day, ye are that, +woman!"</p> + +<p>The kettle was lowered to the burning turf and there was a round of tea. +The children and visitors sat on the floor.</p> + +<p>"Now that ye're in sich fine fettle, Anna," Jamie said, "jist toss th' +cups for us!"</p> + +<p>She took her own cup, gave it a peculiar twist and placed it mouth down +on the saucer. Then she took it up and examined it quizzically. The +leaves straggled hieroglyphically over the inside. The group got their +heads together and looked with serious faces at the cup.</p> + +<p>"There's a ship comin' across th' sea—an' I see a letther!"</p> + +<p>"It's for me, I'll bate," Jamie said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>"No, dear, it's fur me."</p> + +<p>"Take it," Jamie said, "it's maybe a dispossess from oul Savage th' +landlord!"</p> + +<p>She took Jamie's cup.</p> + +<p>"There's a wee bit of a garden wi' a fence aroun' it."</p> + +<p>"Wud that be Savage givin' us a bit of groun' next year t' raise +pirtas?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe."</p> + +<p>"Maybe we're goin' t' flit, where there's a perch or two wi' th' house!"</p> + +<p>A low whistle outside attracted my attention and I stole quietly away. +It was Sonny Johnson, the baker's son, and he had a little bundle under +his arm. We boys were discussing a very serious proposition when Anna +appeared on the scene.</p> + +<p>"Morra, Sonny!"</p> + +<p>"Morra, Anna!"</p> + +<p>"Aany day but Sunday he may go, dear, but not th' day."</p> + +<p>That was all that was needed. Sonny<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> wanted me to take him bird-nesting. +He had the price in the bundle.</p> + +<p>"If I give ye this <i>now</i>," he said, "will ye come some other day fur +nothin'?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>In the bundle was a "bap"—a diamond-shaped, flat, penny piece of bread. +I rejoined the cup-tossers.</p> + +<p>Another whistle. "That's Arthur," Anna said. "No shinny th' day, mind +ye."</p> + +<p>I joined Arthur and we sat on the wall of Gainer's pigsty. We hadn't +been there long when "Chisty" McDowell, the superintendent of the +Methodist Sunday School, was seen over in Scott's garden rounding up his +scholars. We were in his line of vision and he made for us. We saw him +coming and hid in the inner sanctum of the sty. The pig was in the +little outer yard. "Chisty" was a wiry little man of great zeal but +little humor. It was his minor talent that came into play on this +occasion, however.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>"Come, boys, come," he said, "I know ye're in there. We've got a +beautiful lesson to-day." We crouched in a corner, still silent.</p> + +<p>"Come, boys," he urged, "don't keep me waiting. The lesson is about the +Prodigal Son."</p> + +<p>"Say somethin', Arthur," I urged. He did.</p> + +<p>"T' hell wi' the Prodigal Son!" he said, whereupon the little man jumped +the low wall into the outer yard and drove the big, grunting, wallowing +sow in on top of us! Our yells could be heard a mile away. We came out +and were collared and taken off to Sunday School.</p> + +<p>When I returned, the cups were all tossed and the visitors had gone, but +Willie Withero had dropped in and was invited to "stap" for tea. He was +our most welcome visitor and there was but one house where he felt at +home.</p> + +<p>"Tay" that evening consisted of "stir-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>about," Sonny Johnson's unearned +bap and buttermilk. Willie made more noise "suppin'" his stir-about than +Jamie did, and I said:</p> + +<p>"Did ye iver hear ov th' cow that got her foot stuck in a bog, Willie?"</p> + +<p>"No, boy, what did she do?"</p> + +<p>"She got it out!" A stern look from Jamie prevented the application.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, Willie," Anna said, "is it thrue that ye can blink a cow so +that she can give no milk at all?"</p> + +<p>"It's jist a hoax, Anna, some oul bitch said it an' th' others cackle it +from doore to doore. I've naither wife nor wain, chick nor chile, I ate +th' bread ov loneliness an' keep m' own company an' jist bekase I don't +blether wi' th' gossoons th' think I'm uncanny. Isn't that it, Jamie, +eh!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, ye're right, Willie, it's quare what bletherin' fools there are in +this town!"</p> + +<p>Willie held his full spoon in front of his mouth while he replied:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>"It's you that's the dacent maan, Jamie, 'deed it is."</p> + +<p>"The crocks are empty, dear," Anna said to me. After "tay," to the town +well I went for the night's supply of water. When I returned the dishes +were washed and on the dresser. The floor was swept and the family were +swappin' stories with Withero. Sunday was ever the day of Broth and +Romance. Anna made the best broth and told the best stories. No Sunday +was complete without a good story. On the doorstep that night she told +one of her best. As she finished the church bell tolled the curfew. Then +the days of the month were tolled off.</p> + +<p>"Sammy's arm is gey shtrong th' night," Willie said.</p> + +<p>"Aye," Jamie said, "an' th' oul bell's got a fine ring."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h4>HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop05.png" width="100" height="99" alt="W" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">hen</span> Anna had to choose between love and religion—the religion of an +institution—she chose love. Her faith in God remained unshaken, but her +methods of approach were the forms of love rather than the symbols or +ceremonies of a sect. Twelve times in a quarter of a century she +appeared publicly in the parish church. Each time it was to lay on the +altar of religion the fruit of her love. Nine-tenths of those twelve +congregations would not have known her if they had met her on the +street. One-tenth were those who occupied the charity pews.</p> + +<p>Religion in our town had arrayed the inhabitants into two hostile camps. +She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> never had any sympathy with the fight. She was neutral. She pointed +out to the fanatics around her that the basis of religion was love and +that religion that expressed itself in faction fights must have hate at +the bottom of it, not love. She had a philosophy of religion that +<i>worked</i>. To the sects it would have been rank heresy, but the sects +didn't know she existed and those who were benefited by her quaint and +unique application of religion to life were almost as obscure as she +was. I was the first to discover her "heresy" and oppose it. She lived +to see me repent of my folly.</p> + +<p>In a town of two thousand people less than two hundred were familiar +with her face, and half of them knew her because at one time or another +they had been to "Jamie's" to have their shoes made or mended, or +because they lived in our immediate vicinity. Of the hundred who knew +her face, less than half of them were familiar enough to call her +"Anna." Of all the peo<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>ple who had lived in Antrim as long as she had, +she was the least known.</p> + +<p>No feast or function could budge her out of her corner. There came a +time when her family became as accustomed to her refusal as she had to +her environment and we ceased to coax or urge her. She never attended a +picnic, a soirée or a dance in Antrim. One big opportunity for social +intercourse amongst the poor is a wake—she never attended a wake. She +often took entire charge of a wake for a neighbor, but she directed the +affair from her corner.</p> + +<p>She had a slim sort of acquaintance with three intellectual men. They +were John Galt, William Green and John Gordon Holmes, vicars in that +order of the parish of Antrim. They visited her once a year and at +funerals—the funerals of her own dead. None of them knew her. They +hadn't time, but there were members of our own family who knew as little +of her mind as they did.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>She did not seek obscurity. It seemed to have sought and found her. One +avenue of escape after another was closed and she settled down at last +to her lot in the chimney-corner. Her hopes, beliefs and aspirations +were expressed in what she did rather than in what she said, though she +said much, much that is still treasured, long after she has passed away.</p> + +<p>Henry Lecky was a young fisherman on Lough Neagh. He was a great +favorite with the children of the entries. He loved to bring us a small +trout each when he returned after a long fishing trip. He died suddenly, +and Eliza, his mother, came at once for help to the chimney corner.</p> + +<p>"He's gone, Anna, he's gone!" she said as she dropped on the floor +beside Anna.</p> + +<p>"An' ye want me t' do for yer dead what ye'd do for mine, 'Liza?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, aye, Anna, yer God's angel to yer frien's."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>"Go an' fetch 'Liza Conlon, Jane Burrows and Marget Houston!" was Anna's +order to Jamie.</p> + +<p>The women came at once. The plan was outlined, the labor apportioned and +they went to work. Jamie went for the carpenter and hired William Gainer +to dig the grave. Eliza Conlon made the shroud, Jane Burrows and Anna +washed and laid out the corpse, and Mrs. Houston kept Eliza in Anna's +bed until the preliminaries for the wake were completed.</p> + +<p>"Ye can go now, Mrs. Houston," Anna said, "an' I'll mind 'Liza."</p> + +<p>"The light's gone out o' m' home an' darkness fills m' heart, Anna, an' +it's the sun that'll shine for m' no more! Ochone, ochone!"</p> + +<p>"'Liza dear, I've been where ye are now, too often not t' know that +aanything that aanybody says is jist like spittin' at a burnin' house t' +put it out. Yer boy's gone—we can't bring 'im back. Fate's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> cut yer +heart in two an' oul Docther Time an' the care of God are about the only +shure cures goin'."</p> + +<p>"Cudn't the ministher help a little if he was here, Anna?"</p> + +<p>"If ye think so I'll get him, 'Liza!"</p> + +<p>"He might put th' love of God in me!"</p> + +<p>"Puttin' th' love of God in ye isn't like stuffin' yer mouth with a +pirta, 'Liza!"</p> + +<p>"That's so, it is, but he might thry, Anna!"</p> + +<p>"Well, ye'll haave 'im."</p> + +<p>Mr. Green came and gave 'Liza what consolation he could. He read the +appropriate prayer, repeated the customary words. He did it all in a +tender tone and departed.</p> + +<p>"Ye feel fine afther that, don't ye, 'Liza?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, but Henry's dead an' will no come back!"</p> + +<p>"Did ye expect Mr. Green t' bring 'im?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>"What did ye expect, 'Liza?"</p> + +<p>"I dunno."</p> + +<p>"Shure ye don't. Ye didn't expect aanything an' ye got jist what ye +expected. Ah, wuman, God isn't a printed book t' be carried aroun' b' a +man in fine clothes, nor a gold cross t' be danglin' at the watch chain +ov a priest."</p> + +<p>"What is he, Anna, yer wiser nor me; tell a poor craither in throuble, +do!"</p> + +<p>"If ye'll lie very quiet, 'Liza—jist cross yer hands and listen—if ye +do, I'll thry!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, bless ye, I'll blirt no more; go on!"</p> + +<p>"Wee Henry is over there in his shroud, isn't he?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, God rest his soul."</p> + +<p>"He'll rest Henry's, 'Liza, but He'll haave the divil's own job wi' +yours if ye don't help 'im."</p> + +<p>"Och, aye, thin I'll be at pace."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>"As I was sayin', Henry's body is jist as it was yesterday, han's, legs, +heart an' head, aren't they?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, 'cept cold an' stiff."</p> + +<p>"What's missin' then?"</p> + +<p>"His blessed soul, God love it."</p> + +<p>"That's right. Now when the spirit laves th' body we say th' body's +dead, but it's jist a partnership gone broke, wan goes up an' wan goes +down. I've always thot that kissin' a corpse was like kissin' a cage +whin the bird's dead—<i>there's nothin' in it</i>. Now answer me this, 'Liza +Lecky: Is Henry a livin' spirit or a dead body?"</p> + +<p>"A livin' spirit, God prosper it."</p> + +<p>"Aye, an' God is th' same kind, but Henry's can be at but wan point at +once, while God's is everywhere at once. He's so big He can cover the +world an' so small He can get in be a crack in th' glass or a kayhole."</p> + +<p>"I've got four panes broke, Anna!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>"Well, they're jist like four doores."</p> + +<p>"Feeries can come in that way too."</p> + +<p>"Aye, but feeries can't sew up a broken heart, acushla."</p> + +<p>"Where's Henry's soul, Anna?" Eliza asked, as if the said soul was a +naavy over whom Anna stood as gaffer.</p> + +<p>"It may be here at yer bedhead now, but yer more in need of knowin' +where God's Spirit is, 'Liza."</p> + +<p>Jamie entered with a cup of tea.</p> + +<p>"For a throubled heart," he said, "there's nothin' in this world like a +rale good cup o' tay."</p> + +<p>"God bless ye kindly, Jamie, I've a sore heart an' I'm as dhry as a +whistle."</p> + +<p>"Now Jamie, put th' cups down on th' bed," Anna said, "an' then get out, +like a good bhoy!"</p> + +<p>"I want a crack wi' Anna, Jamie," Eliza said.</p> + +<p>"Well, ye'll go farther an' fare worse—she's a buffer at that!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>Eliza sat up in bed while she drank the tea. When she drained her cup +she handed it over to Anna.</p> + +<p>"Toss it, Anna, maybe there's good luck in it fur me."</p> + +<p>"No, dear, it's a hoax at best; jist now it wud be pure blasphemy. Ye +don't need luck, ye need at this minute th' help of God."</p> + +<p>"Och, aye, ye're right; jist talk t' me ov Him."</p> + +<p>"I was talkin' about His Spirit when Jamie came in."</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"It comes in as many ways as there's need fur its comin', an' that's +quite a wheen."</p> + +<p>"God knows."</p> + +<p>"Ye'll haave t' be calm, dear, before He'd come t' ye in aany way."</p> + +<p>"Aye, but I'm at pace now, Anna, amn't I?"</p> + +<p>"Well, now, get out here an' get down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> on th' floor on yer bare knees +and haave a talk wi' 'im."</p> + +<p>Eliza obeyed implicitly. Anna knelt beside her.</p> + +<p>"I don't know what t' say."</p> + +<p>"Say afther me," and Anna told of an empty home and a sore heart. When +she paused, Eliza groaned.</p> + +<p>"Now tell 'im to lay 'is hand on yer tired head in token that He's wi' +ye in yer disthress!"</p> + +<p>Even to a dull intellect like Eliza's the suggestion was startling.</p> + +<p>"Wud He do it, Anna?"</p> + +<p>"Well, jist ask 'im an' then wait an' see!"</p> + +<p>In faltering tones Eliza made her request and waited. As gently as falls +an autumn leaf Anna laid her hand on Eliza's head, held it there for a +moment and removed it.</p> + +<p>"Oh, oh, oh, He's done it, Anna, He's done it, glory be t' God, He's +done it!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>"Rise up, dear," Anna said, "an' tell me about it."</p> + +<p>"There was a nice feelin' went down through me, Anna, an' th' han' was +jist like yours!"</p> + +<p>"The han' was mine, but it was God's too."</p> + +<p>Anna wiped her spectacles and took Eliza over close to the window while +she read a text of the Bible. "Listen, dear," Anna said, "God's arm is +not shortened."</p> + +<p>"Did ye think that an arm could be stretched from beyont th' clouds t' +Pogue's entry?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"No, dear, but God takes a han' where ever He can find it and jist diz +what He likes wi' it. Sometimes He takes a bishop's and lays it on a +child's head in benediction, then He takes the han' of a dochter t' +relieve pain, th' han' of a mother t' guide her chile, an' sometimes He +takes th' han' of an aul craither like me t' give<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> a bit comfort to a +neighbor. But they're all han's touch't be His Spirit, an' His Spirit is +everywhere lukin' fur han's to use."</p> + +<p>Eliza looked at her open-mouthed for a moment.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, Anna," she said, as she put her hands on her shoulders, "was +th' han' that bro't home trouts fur th' childther God's han' too?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, 'deed it was."</p> + +<p>"Oh, glory be t' God—thin I'm at pace—isn't it gran' t' think +on—isn't it now?"</p> + +<p>Eliza Conlon abruptly terminated the conversation by announcing that all +was ready for the wake.</p> + +<p>"Ah, but it's the purty corpse he is," she said, "—luks jist like +life!" The three women went over to the Lecky home. It was a one-room +place. The big bed stood in the corner. The corpse was "laid out" with +the hands clasped.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>The moment Eliza entered she rushed to the bed and fell on her knees +beside it. She was quiet, however, and after a moment's pause she raised +her head and laying a hand on the folded hands said: "Ah, han's ov God +t' be so cold an' still!"</p> + +<p>Anna stood beside her until she thought she had stayed long enough, then +led her gently away. From that moment Anna directed the wake and the +funeral from her chimney-corner.</p> + +<p>"Here's a basket ov flowers for Henry, Anna, the childther gethered thim +th' day," Maggie McKinstry said as she laid them down on the +hearthstones beside Anna.</p> + +<p>"Ye've got some time, Maggie?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, aye."</p> + +<p>"Make a chain ov them an' let it go all th' way aroun' th' body, they'll +look purty that way, don't ye think so?"</p> + +<p>"Illigant, indeed, to be shure! 'Deed I'll do it." And it was done.</p> + +<p>To Eliza Conlon was given the task of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> providing refreshments. I say +"task," for after the carpenter was paid for the coffin and Jamie Scott +for the hearse there was only six shillings left.</p> + +<p>"Get whey for th' childther," Anna said, and "childther" in this catalog +ran up into the twenties.</p> + +<p>For the older "childther" there was something from Mrs. Lorimer's public +house—something that was kept under cover and passed around late, and +later still diluted and passed around again. Concerning this item Anna +said: "Wather it well, dear, an' save their wits; they've got little +enough now, God save us all!"</p> + +<p>"Anna," said Sam Johnson, "I am told you have charge of Henry's wake. Is +there anything I can do?"</p> + +<p>Sam was the tall, imperious precentor of the Mill Row meeting-house. He +was also the chief baker of the town and "looked up to" in matters +relating to morals as well as loaves.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>"Mister Gwynn has promised t' read a chapther, Mister Johnson. He'll +read, maybe, the fourteenth of John. If he diz, tell him t' go aisy over +th' twelth verse an' explain that th' works He did can be done in Antrim +by any poor craither who's got th' Spirit."</p> + +<p>Sam straightened up to his full height and in measured words said:</p> + +<p>"Ye know, no doubt, Anna, that Misther Gwynn is a Churchman an' I'm a +Presbyterian. He wouldn't take kindly to a hint from a Mill Row maan, I +fear, especially on a disputed text."</p> + +<p>"Well, dear knows if there's aanything this oul world needs more than +another it's an undisputed text. Couldn't ye find us wan, Misther +Johnson?"</p> + +<p>"All texts are disputed," he said, "but there are texts not in dispute."</p> + +<p>"I think I could name wan at laste, Mister Johnson."</p> + +<p>"Maybe."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>"'Deed no, not maybe at all, but <i>sure-be</i>. Jamie dear, get m' th' Bible +if ye plaze."</p> + +<p>While Jamie got the Bible she wiped her glasses and complained in a +gentle voice about the "mortal pity of it" that texts were pins for +Christians to stick in each other's flesh.</p> + +<p>"Here it is," she said, "'Th' poor ye haave always with ye.'"</p> + +<p>"Aye," Sam said, "an' how true it is."</p> + +<p>"'Deed it's true, but who did He mane by 'ye'?"</p> + +<p>"Th' world, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Not all th' world, by a spoonful, but a wheen of thim like Sandy +Somerville, who's got a signboard in front of his back that tells he +ates too much while the rest of us haave backbones that could as aisily +be felt before as behine!"</p> + +<p>"So that's what you call an <i>undisputed</i> text?"</p> + +<p>She looked over the rim of her spec<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>tacles at him for a moment in +silence, and then said, slowly:</p> + +<p>"Ochane—w-e-l-l—tell Mister Gwynn t' read what he likes, it'll mane +th' same aanyway."</p> + +<p>Kitty Coyle came in. Henry and she were engaged. They had known each +other since childhood. Her eyes were red with weeping. Henry's mother +led her by the arm.</p> + +<p>"Anna, dear," Eliza said, "she needs ye as much as me. Give 'er a bit ov +comfort."</p> + +<p>They went into the little bedroom and the door was shut. Jamie stood as +sentry.</p> + +<p>When they came out young Johnny Murdock, Henry's chum, was sitting on +Jamie's workbench.</p> + +<p>"I want ye t' take good care of Kitty th' night, Johnny. Keep close t' +'er and when th' moon comes out take 'er down the garden t' get fresh +air. It'll be stuffy wi' all th' people an' the corpse in Lecky's."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>"Aye," he said, "I'll do all I can." To Kitty she said, "I've asked +Johnny t' keep gey close t' ye till it's all over, Kitty. Ye'll +understand."</p> + +<p>"Aye," Kitty said, "Henry loved 'im more'n aany maan on th' Lough!"</p> + +<p>"Had tay yit?" Willie Withero asked as he blundered in on the scene.</p> + +<p>"No, Willie, 'deed we haaven't thought ov it!"</p> + +<p>"Well, t' haave yer bowels think yer throat's cut isn't sauncy!" he +said.</p> + +<p>The fire was low and the kettle cold.</p> + +<p>"Here, Johnny," Withero said, "jist run over t' Farren's for a ha'p'orth +ov turf an' we'll haave a cup o' tay fur these folks who're workin' +overtime palaverin' about th' dead! Moses alive, wan corpse is enough +fur a week or two—don't kill us all entirely!"</p> + +<p>Shortly after midnight Anna went over to see how things were at the +wake. They told her of the singing of the children, of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> the beautiful +chapther by Misther Gwynn, and the "feelin'" by Graham Shannon. The whey +was sufficient and nearly everybody had "a dhrap o' th' craither" and a +bite of fadge.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Anna dear," Eliza said, "shure it's yerself that knows how t' make +a moi'ty go th' longest distance over dhry throats an' empty stomachs! +'Deed it was a revival an' a faste in wan, an' th' only pity is that +poor Henry cudn't enjoy it!"</p> + +<p>The candles were burned low in the sconces, the flowers around the +corpse had faded, a few tongues, loosened by stimulation, were still +wagging, but the laughter had died down and the stories were all told. +There had been a hair-raising ghost story that had sent a dozen home +before the <i>respectable</i> time of departure. The empty stools had been +carried outside and were largely occupied by lovers.</p> + +<p>Anna drew Eliza's head to her breast and pressing it gently to her said, +"I'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> proud of ye, dear, ye've borne up bravely! Now I'm goin' t' haave +a few winks in th' corner, for there'll be much to do th' morra."</p> + +<p>Scarcely had the words died on her lips when Kitty Coyle gave vent to a +scream of terror that brought the mourners to the door and terrified +those outside.</p> + +<p>"What ails ye, in th' name of God?" Anna asked. She was too terrified to +speak at once. The mourners crowded closely together.</p> + +<p>"Watch!" Kitty said as she pointed with her finger toward Conlon's +pigsty. Johnny Murdock had his arm around Kitty's waist to keep her +steady and assure her of protection. They watched and waited. It was a +bright moonlight night, and save for the deep shadows of the houses and +hedges as clear as day. Tensely nerve-strung, open-mouthed and wild-eyed +stood the group for what seemed to them hours. In a few minutes a white<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +figure was seen emerging from the pigsty. The watchers were transfixed +in terror. Most of them clutched at each other nervously. Old Mrs. +Houston, the midwife who had told the ghost story at the wake, dropped +in a heap. Peter Hannen and Jamie Wilson carried her indoors.</p> + +<p>The white figure stood on the pathway leading through the gardens for a +moment and then returned to the sty. Most of the watchers fled to their +homes. Some didn't move because they had lost the power to do so. Others +just stood.</p> + +<p>"It's a hoax an' a joke," Anna said. "Now wan of you men go down there +an' see!"</p> + +<p>No one moved. Every eye was fixed on the pigsty. A long-drawn-out, +mournful cry was heard. It was all that tradition had described as the +cry of the Banshee.</p> + +<p>"The Banshee it is! Ah, merciful God, which ov us is t' b' tuk, I +wondther?" It was Eliza who spoke, and she continued,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> directing her +talk to Anna, "An' it's th' long arm ov th' Almighty it is raychin' down +t' give us a warnin', don't ye think so now, Anna?"</p> + +<p>"If it's wan arm of God, I know where th' other is, 'Liza!" Addressing +the terror-stricken watchers, Anna said:</p> + +<p>"Stand here, don't budge, wan of ye!"</p> + +<p>Along the sides of the houses in the deep shadow Anna walked until she +got to the end of the row; just around the corner stood the sty. In the +shadow she stood with her back to the wall and waited. The watchers were +breathless and what they saw a minute later gave them a syncope of the +heart that they never forgot. They saw the white figure emerge again and +they saw Anna stealthily approach and enter into what they thought was a +struggle with it. They gasped when they saw her a moment later bring the +white figure along with her. As she came nearer it looked limp and +pliable, for it hung over her arm.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>"It's that divil, Ben Green!" she said as she threw a white sheet at +their feet.</p> + +<p>"Hell roast 'im on a brandther!" said one.</p> + +<p>"The divil gut 'im like a herrin'!" said another. Four of the younger +men, having been shamed by their own cowardice, made a raid on the sty, +and next day when Ben came to the funeral he looked very much the worse +for wear.</p> + +<p>Ben was a friend of Henry's and a good deal of a practical joker. Anna +heard of what happened and she directed that he be one of the four men +to lower the coffin into the grave, as a moiety of consolation. Johnny +Murdock made strenuous objections to this.</p> + +<p>"Why?" Anna asked.</p> + +<p>"Bekase," he said, "shure th' divil nearly kilt Kitty be th' fright!"</p> + +<p>"But she was purty comfortable th' rest of th' time?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, aye."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>"Ye lifted a gey big burden from 'er heart last night, didn't ye, +Johnny?"</p> + +<p>"Aye; an' if ye won't let on I'll tell ye, Anna." He came close and +whispered into her ear: "Am goin' t' thry danged hard t' take th' heart +as well as th' throuble!"</p> + +<p>"What diz Kitty think?"</p> + +<p>"She's switherin'."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h4>THE APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop06.png" width="100" height="101" alt="A" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">nna</span> was an epistle to Pogue's entry and my only excuse for dragging +Hughie Thornton into this narrative is that he was a commentary on Anna. +He was only once in our house, but that was an "occasion," and for many +years we dated things that happened about that time as "about," "before" +or "after" "the night Hughie stayed in the pigsty."</p> + +<p>We lived in the social cellar; Hughie led a precarious existence in the +<i>sub-cellar</i>. He was the beggar-man of several towns, of which Antrim +was the largest. He was a short, thick-set man with a pock-marked face, +eyes like a mouse, eyebrows<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> that looked like well-worn scrubbing +brushes, and a beard cropped close with scissors or a knife. He wore two +coats, two pairs of trousers and several waistcoats—all at the same +time, winter and summer. His old battered hat looked like a crow's nest. +His wardrobe was so elaborately patched that practically nothing at all +of the originals remained; even then patches of his old, withered skin +could be seen at various angles. The thing that attracted my attention +more than anything else about him was his pockets. He had dozens of them +and they were always full of bread crusts, scraps of meat and cooking +utensils, for like a snail he carried his domicile on his back. His +boots looked as if a blacksmith had made them, and for whangs (laces) he +used strong wire.</p> + +<p>He was preëminently a citizen of the world. He had not lived in a house +in half a century. A haystack in summer and a pigsty in winter sufficed +him. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> had a deep graphophone voice and when he spoke the sound was +like the creaking of a barn door on rusty hinges. When he came to town +he was to us what a circus is to boys of more highly favored +communities. There were several interpretations of Hughie. One was that +he was a "sent back." That is, he had gone to the gates of a less +cumbersome life and Peter or the porter at the other gate had sent him +back to perform some unfulfilled task. Another was that he was a +nobleman of an ancient line who was wandering over the earth in disguise +in search of the Grail. A third, and the most popular one, was that he +was just a common beggar and an unmitigated liar. The second +interpretation was made more plausible by the fact that he rather +enjoyed his reputation as a liar, for wise ones said: "He's jist lettin' +on."</p> + +<p>On one of his semi-annual visits to Antrim, Hughie got into a barrel of +trouble. He was charged—rumor charged him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>—with having blinked a +widow's cow. It was noised abroad that he had been caught in the act of +"skellyin'" at her. The story gathered in volume as it went from mouth +to mouth until it crystallized as a crime in the minds of half a dozen +of our toughest citizens—boys who hankered for excitement as a hungry +stomach hankers for food. He was finally rounded up in a field adjoining +the Mill Row meeting-house and pelted with stones. I was of the +"gallery" that watched the fun. I watched until a track of blood +streaked down Hughie's pock-marked face. Then I ran home and told Anna.</p> + +<p>"Ma!" I yelled breathlessly, "they're killin' Hughie Thornton!"</p> + +<p>Jamie threw his work down and accompanied Anna over the little garden +patches to the wall that protected the field. Through the gap they went +and found poor Hughie in bad shape. He was crying and he cried like a +brass band. His head and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> face had been cut in several places and his +face and clothes were red.</p> + +<p>They brought him home. A crowd followed and filled Pogue's entry, a +crowd that was about equally divided in sentiment against Hughie and +against the toughs.</p> + +<p>I borrowed a can of water from Mrs. McGrath and another from the Gainers +and Anna washed old Hughie's wounds in Jamie's tub. It was a great +operation. Hughie of course refused to divest himself of any clothing, +and as she said afterwards it was like "dhressin' th' woonds of a +haystack."</p> + +<p>One of my older brothers came home and cleared the entry, and we sat +down to our stir-about and buttermilk. An extra cup of good hot strong +tea was the finishing touch to the Samaritan act. Jamie had scant +sympathy with the beggar-man. He had always called him hard names in +language not lawful to utter, and even in this critical exigency was not +over tender.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> Anna saw a human need and tried to supply it.</p> + +<p>"Did ye blink th' cow?" Jamie asked as we sat around the candle after +supper.</p> + +<p>"Divil a blink," said Hughie.</p> + +<p>"What did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur?" was the next question.</p> + +<p>"I was fixin' m' galluses, over Crawford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked +over an' says, says he:</p> + +<p>"'Morra, Hughie!'</p> + +<p>"'Morra, bhoy!' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Luks like snow,' says he (it was in July).</p> + +<p>"'Aye,' says I, 'we're goin' t' haave more weather; th' sky's in a bad +art'" (direction).</p> + +<p>Anna arose, put her little Sunday shawl around her shoulders, tightened +the strings of her cap under her chin and went out. We gasped with +astonishment! What on earth could she be going out for? She never went +out at night. Everybody came<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> to her. There was something so mysterious +in that sudden exit that we just looked at our guest without +understanding a word he said.</p> + +<p>Jamie opened up another line of inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Th' say yer a terrible liar, Hughie."</p> + +<p>"I am that," Hughie said without the slightest hesitation. "I'm th' +champ'yun liar ov County Anthrim."</p> + +<p>"How did ye get th' belt?"</p> + +<p>"Aisy, as aisy as tellin' th' thruth."</p> + +<p>"That's harder nor ye think."</p> + +<p>"So's lyin', Jamie!"</p> + +<p>"Tell us how ye won th' champ'yunship."</p> + +<p>"Whin I finish this dhraw."</p> + +<p>He took a live coal and stoked up the bowl of his old cutty-pipe. The +smacking of his lips could have been heard at the mouth of Pogue's +entry. We waited with breathless interest. When he had finished he +knocked the ashes out on the toe of his brogue and talked for nearly an +hour of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> the great event in which he covered himself with glory.</p> + +<p>It was a fierce encounter according to Hughie, the then champion being a +Ballymena man by the name of Jack Rooney. Jack and a bunch of vagabonds +sat on a stone pile near Ballyclare when Hughie hove in sight. The +beggar-man was at once challenged to divest himself of half his clothes +or enter the contest. He entered, with the result that Ballymena lost +the championship! The concluding round as Hughie recited it was as +follows:</p> + +<p>"I dhruv a nail throo th' moon wanst," said Jack.</p> + +<p>"Ye did, did ye," said Hughie, "but did ye iver hear ov the maan that +climbed up over th' clouds wid a hammer in his han' an' clinched it on +th' other side?"</p> + +<p>"No," said the champion.</p> + +<p>"I'm him!" said Hughie.</p> + +<p>"I'm bate!" said Jack Rooney, "an'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> begobs if I wor St. Peether I'd kape +ye outside th' gate till ye tuk it out agin!"</p> + +<p>Anna returned with a blanket rolled up under her arm. She gave Hughie +his choice between sleeping in Jamie's corner among the lasts or +occupying the pigsty. He chose the pigsty, but before he retired I +begged Anna to ask him about the Banshee.</p> + +<p>"Did ye ever really see a Banshee, Hughie?"</p> + +<p>"Is there aanythin' a champ'yun liar haasn't seen?" Jamie interrupted.</p> + +<p>"Aye," Hughie said, "'deed there is, he niver seen a maan who'd believe +'im even whin he was tellin' th' thruth!"</p> + +<p>"That's broth for your noggin', Jamie," Anna said. Encouraged by Anna, +Hughie came back with a thrust that increased Jamie's sympathy for him.</p> + +<p>"I'm undther yer roof an' beholdin' t' yer kindness, but I'd like t' ax +ye a civil quest'yun if I may be so bowld."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>"Aye, go on."</p> + +<p>"Did ye blow a farmer's brains out in th' famine fur a pint ov milk?"</p> + +<p>"It's a lie!" Jamie said, indignantly.</p> + +<p>"Well, me bhoy, there must b' quite a wheen, thrainin' fur me belt in +Anthrim!"</p> + +<p>"There's something in that, Hughie!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, somethin' Hughie Thornton didn't put in it!"</p> + +<p>We youngsters were irritated and impatient over what seemed to us +useless palaver about minor details. We wanted the story and wanted it +at once, for we understood that Hughie went to bed with the crows and we +stood in terror lest this huge bundle of pockets with its unearthly +voice should vanish into thin air.</p> + +<p>"D'ye know McShane?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Aye, middlin'."</p> + +<p>"Ax 'im what Hughie Thornton towld 'im wan night be th' hour ov midnight +an' afther. Ax 'im, I say, an' he'll swear be th' Holy Virgin an' St. +Peether t' it!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>"Jist tell us aanyway, Hughie," Anna urged and the beggar-man proceeded.</p> + +<p>"I was be th' oul Quaker graveyard be Moylena wan night whin th' shadows +fell an' bein' more tired than most I slipt in an' lay down be th' big +wall t' slape. I cros't m'self seven times an' says I—'God rest th' +sowls ov all here, an' God prosper th' sowl ov Hughie Thornton.' I wint +t' slape an' slept th' slape ov th' just till twelve be th' clock. I was +shuk out ov slape be a screech that waked th' dead!</p> + +<p>"Och, be th' powers, Jamie, me hair stud like th' brisels on O'Hara's +hog. I lukt and what m' eyes lukt upon froze me blood like icicles +hingin' frum th' thatch. It was a woman in a white shift, young an' +beautiful, wid hair stramin' down her back. She sat on th' wall wid her +head in her han's keenin' an' moanin': 'Ochone, ochone!' I thried to +spake but m' tongue cluv t' th' roof ov m' mouth. I thried t' move a +han' but it wudn't budge. M' legs an'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> feet wor as stiff and shtrait as +th' legs ov thim tongs in yer chimley. Och, but it's th' prackus I was +frum top t' toe! Dead intirely was I but fur th' eyes an' th' wit behint +thim. She ariz an' walked up an' down, back an' fort', up an' down, back +an' fort', keenin' an' cryin' an' wringin' her han's! Maan alive, didn't +she carry on terrible! Purty soon wid a yell she lept into the +graveyard, thin she lept on th' wall, thin I heerd her on th' road, +keenin'; an' iverywhere she wint wor long bars of light like sunbames +streamin' throo th' holes in a barn. Th' keenin' become waker an' waker +till it died down like the cheep ov a willy-wag-tail far off be the ind +ov th' road.</p> + +<p>"I got up an' ran like a red shank t' McShane's house. I dundthered at +his doore till he opened it, thin I towld him I'd seen th' Banshee!</p> + +<p>"'That bates Bannagher!' says he.</p> + +<p>"'It bates th' divil,' says I. 'But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> whose fur above th' night is what +I'd like t' know.'</p> + +<p>"'Oul Misther Chaine,' says he, 'as sure as gun's iron!'"</p> + +<p>The narrative stopped abruptly, stopped at McShane's door.</p> + +<p>"Did oul Misther Chaine die that night?" Anna asked.</p> + +<p>"Ax McShane!" was all the answer he gave and we were sent off to bed.</p> + +<p>Hughie was escorted to the pigsty with his blanket and candle. What +Jamie saw on the way to the pigsty made the perspiration stand in big +beads on his furrowed brow. Silhouetted against the sky were several +figures. Some were within a dozen yards, others were farther away. Two +sat on a low wall that divided the Adair and Mulholland gardens. They +were silent and motionless, but there was no mistake about it. He +directed Anna's attention to them and she made light of it. When they +returned to the house Jamie expressed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> fear for the life of the +beggar-man. Anna whispered something into his ear, for she knew that we +were wide-awake. They went into their room conversing in an undertone.</p> + +<p>The thing was so uncanny to me that it was three o'clock next morning +before I went to sleep. As early as six there was an unusual shuffling +and clattering of feet over the cobblestones in Pogue's entry. We knew +everybody in the entry by the sound of their footfall. The clatter was +by the feet of strangers.</p> + +<p>I "dunched" my brother, who lay beside me, with my elbow.</p> + +<p>"Go an' see if oul Hughie's livin' or dead," I said.</p> + +<p>"Ye cudn't kill 'im," he said.</p> + +<p>"How d'ye know?"</p> + +<p>"I heerd a quare story about 'im last night!"</p> + +<p>"Where?"</p> + +<p>"In th' barber's shop."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>"Is he a feerie?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"What is he?"</p> + +<p>"Close yer thrap an' lie still!"</p> + +<p>Somebody opened the door and walked in.</p> + +<p>I slid into my clothes and climbed down. It was Withero. He shook Anna +and Jamie in their bed and asked in a loud voice:</p> + +<p>"What's all this palaver about an' oul throllop what niver earned salt +t' 'is pirtas?"</p> + +<p>"Go on t' yer stone pile, Willie," Anna said, as she sat up in bed; +"what ye don't know will save docther's bills."</p> + +<p>"If I catch m'self thinkin' aanythin' sauncy ov that aul haythen baste +I'll change m' name!" he said, as he turned and left in high dudgeon.</p> + +<p>When I got to the pigsty there were several early callers lounging +around. "Jowler" Hainey sat on a big stone near the slit. Mary +McConnaughy stood with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> her arms akimbo, within a yard of the door, and +Tommy Wilson was peeping into the sty through a knot-hole on the side. I +took my turn at the hole. Hughie had evidently been awakened early. He +was sitting arranging his pockets. Con Mulholland came down the entry +with his gun over his shoulder. He had just returned from his vigil as +night watchman at the Greens and was going the longest way around to his +home.</p> + +<p>He leaned his gun against the house side and lit his pipe. Then he +opened the sty door, softly, and said:</p> + +<p>"Morra, Hughie."</p> + +<p>"Morra, Con," came the answer, in calliope tones from our guest.</p> + +<p>"Haave ye a good stock ov tubacca?" Con asked Hughie.</p> + +<p>"I cud shtart a pipe shap, Con, fur be th' first strake ov dawn I found +five new pipes an' five half ounces ov tubacca inside th' doore ov th' +sty!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>"Take this bit too. Avic, ye don't come ofen," and he gave him a small +package and took his departure.</p> + +<p>Eliza Conlon brought a cup of tea. Without even looking in, she pushed +the little door ajar, laid it just inside, and went away without a word. +Mulholland and Hainey seemed supremely concerned about the weather. From +all they said it was quite evident that each of them had "jist dhrapped +aroun' t' find out what Jamie thought ov th' prospects fur a fine day!" +Old Sandy Somerville came hatless and in his shirt-sleeves, his hands +deep in his pockets and his big watchchain dangling across what Anna +called the "front of his back." Sandy was some quality, too, and owned +three houses.</p> + +<p>"Did aany o' ye see my big orange cat?" he asked the callers. Without +waiting for an answer he opened the door of the pigsty and peeped in.</p> + +<p>By the time Hughie scrambled out there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> were a dozen men, women and boys +around the sty. As the beggar-man struggled up through his freight to +his feet the eyes of the crowd were scrutinizing him. Sandy shook hands +with him and wished him a pleasant journey.</p> + +<p>Hainey hoped he would live long and prosper. As he expressed the hope he +furtively stuffed into one of Hughie's pockets a small package.</p> + +<p>Anna came out and led Hughie into the house for breakfast. The little +crowd moved toward the door. On the doorstep she turned around and said: +"Hughie's goin' t' haave a cup an' a slice an' go. Ye can all see him in +a few minutes. Excuse me if I shut the doore, but Jamie's givin' the +thrush its mornin' bath an' it might fly out."</p> + +<p>She gently closed the door and we were again alone with the guest.</p> + +<p>"The luck ov God is m' portion here," he said, looking at Anna.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>Nothing was more evident. His pockets were taxed to their full capacity +and those who gathered around the table that morning wished that the +"luck of God" would spread a little.</p> + +<p>"Th' feeries must haave been t' see ye," Jamie said, eyeing his pockets.</p> + +<p>"Aye, gey sauncy feeries, too!"</p> + +<p>"Did ye see aany, Hughie?" Anna asked.</p> + +<p>"No, but I had a wondtherful dhrame." The announcement was a +disappointment to us. We had dreams of our own and to have right at our +fireside the one man in all the world who <i>saw</i> things and get merely a +dream from him was, to say the least, discouraging.</p> + +<p>"I thocht I heer'd th' rat, tap; rat, tap, ov th' Lepracaun—th' feerie +shoemaker.</p> + +<p>"'Is that th' Lepracaun?' says I. 'If it is I want m' three wishes.' +'Get thim out,' says he, 'fur I'm gey busy th' night.'</p> + +<p>"'Soun' slape th' night an' safe journey th' morra,' says I.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>"'Get yer third out or I'm gone,' says he.</p> + +<p>"I scratched m' head an' swithered, but divil a third cud I think ov. +Jist as he was goin', 'Oh,' says I, 'I want a pig fur this sty!'</p> + +<p>"'Ye'll git him!' says he, an' off he wint."</p> + +<p>Here was something, after all, that gave us more excitement than a +Banshee story. We had a sty. We had hoped for years for a pig. We had +been forced often to use some of the sty for fuel, but in good times +Jamie had always replaced the boards. This was a real vision and we were +satisfied. Jamie's faith in Hughie soared high at the time, but a few +months later it fell to zero. Anna with a twinkle in her eye would +remind us of Hughie's prophecy. One day he wiped the vision off the +slate.</p> + +<p>"T' h—l wi' Hughie!" he said. "Some night he'll come back an' slape<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +there, thin we'll haave a pig in th' sty shure!"</p> + +<p>As he left our house that morning he was greeted in a most unusual +manner by a score of people who crowded the entry. Men and women +gathered around him. They inspected the wounds. They gave their blessing +in as many varieties as there were people present. The new attitude +toward the beggar baffled us. Generally he was considered a good deal of +a nuisance and something of a fraud, but that morning he was looked upon +as a saint—as one inspired, as one capable of bestowing benedictions on +the young and giving "luck" to the old. Out of their penury and want +they brought gifts of food, tobacco, cloth for patches and needles and +thread. He was overwhelmed and over-burdened, and as his mission of +gathering food for a few weeks was accomplished, he made for the town +head when he left the entry.</p> + +<p>The small crowd grew into a big one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> and he was the center of a throng +as he made his way north. When he reached the town well, Maggie +McKinstry had several small children in waiting and Hughie was asked to +give them a blessing. It was a new atmosphere to him, but he bungled +through it. The more unintelligible his jabbering, the more assured were +the recipients of his power to bless. One of the boys who stoned him was +brought by his father to ask forgiveness.</p> + +<p>"God save ye kindly," Hughie said to him. "Th' woonds ye made haave been +turned into blessin's galore!" He came in despised. He went out a saint.</p> + +<p>It proved to be Hughie's last visit to Antrim. His going out of life was +a mystery, and as the years went by tradition accorded him an exit not +unlike that of Moses. I was amongst those the current of whose lives +were supposed to have been changed by the touch of his hand on that last +visit. Anna alone knew the secret of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> his alleged sainthood. She was the +author and publisher of it. That night when she left us with Hughie she +gathered together in 'Liza Conlon's a few "hand-picked" people whose +minds were as an open book to her. She told them that the beggar-man was +of an ancient line, wandering the earth in search of the Holy Grail, but +that as he wandered he was recording in a secret book the deeds of the +poor. She knew exactly how the news would travel and where. One +superstition stoned him and another canonized him.</p> + +<p>"Dear," she said to me, many, many years afterwards. "A good thought +will thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if it gets th' right +start!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h4>IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop07.png" width="100" height="102" alt="I" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">t's</span> a quare world," Jamie said one night as we sat in the glow of a +peat fire.</p> + +<p>"Aye, 'deed yer right, Jamie," Anna replied as she gazed into the +smokeless flames.</p> + +<p>He took his short black pipe out of his mouth, spat into the burning +sods and added: "I wondther if it's as quare t' everybody, Anna?"</p> + +<p>"Ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither +mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring."</p> + +<p>There had been but one job that day—a pair of McGuckin's boots. They +had been half-soled and heeled and my sister had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> taken them home, with +orders what to bring home for supper.</p> + +<p>The last handful of peat had been put on the fire. The cobbler's bench +had been put aside for the night and we gathered closely around the +hearth.</p> + +<p>The town clock struck eight.</p> + +<p>"What th' h—l's kapin' th' hussy!" Jamie said petulantly.</p> + +<p>"Hugh's at a Fenian meeting more 'n likely an' it's worth a black eye +for th' wife t' handle money when he's gone," Anna suggested.</p> + +<p>"More likely he's sleepin' off a dhrunk," he said.</p> + +<p>"No, Jamie, he laves that t' the craithers who give 'im a livin'."</p> + +<p>"Yer no judge o' human naiture, Anna. A squint out o' th' tail o' yer +eye at what McGuckin carries in front ov 'im wud tell ye betther if ye +had th' wits to obsarve."</p> + +<p>Over the fire hung a pot on the chain and close to the turf coals sat +the kettle singing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> Nothing of that far-off life has left a more +lasting impression than the singing of the kettle. It sang a dirge that +night, but it usually sang of hope. It was ever the harbinger of the +thing that was most indispensable in that home of want—a cup of tea. +Often it was tea without milk, sometimes without sugar, but always tea. +If it came to a choice between tea and bread, we went without bread.</p> + +<p>Anna did not relish the reflection on her judgment and remained silent.</p> + +<p>There was a loud noise at the door.</p> + +<p>"Jazus!" Jamie exclaimed, "it's snowin'." Some one was kicking the snow +off against the door-post. The latch was lifted and in walked Felix +Boyle the bogman.</p> + +<p>"What th' blazes are ye in th' dark fur?" Felix asked in a deep, hoarse +voice. His old rabbit-skin cap was pulled down over his ears, his head +and shoulders were covered with snow. As he shook it off we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> shivered. +We were in debt to Felix for a load of turf and we suspected he had +called for the money. Anna lit the candle she was saving for +supper-time. The bogman threw his cap and overcoat over in the corner on +the lasts and sat down.</p> + +<p>"I'm frozen t' death!" he said as he proceeded to take off his brogues. +As he came up close to the coals, we were smitten with his foul breath +and in consequence gave him a wider berth. He had been drinking.</p> + +<p>"Where's th' mare?" Anna asked.</p> + +<p>"Gone home, th' bitch o' h—l," he said, "an' she's got m' load o' turf +wid 'er, bad cess t' 'er dhirty sowl!"</p> + +<p>The town clock struck nine.</p> + +<p>Felix removed his socks, pushed his stool aside and sat down on the mud +floor. A few minutes later he was flat on his back, fast asleep and +snoring loudly.</p> + +<p>The fire grew smaller. Anna husbanded the diminishing embers by keeping +them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> closely together with the long tongs. The wind howled and +screamed. The window rattled, the door creaked on its hinges and every +few minutes a gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the ashes into +our faces. We huddled nearer the fire.</p> + +<p>"Can't ye fix up that oul craither's head a bit?" Jamie asked. I brought +over the bogman's coat. Anna made a pillow of it and placed it under his +head. He turned over on his side. As he did so a handful of small change +rolled out of his pocket.</p> + +<p>"Think of that now," Jamie said as he gathered it up and stuffed it back +where it belonged, "an oul dhrunken turf dhriver wi' money t' waste +while we're starvin'."</p> + +<p>From that moment we were acutely hungry.</p> + +<p>This new incident rendered the condition poignant.</p> + +<p>"Maybe Mrs. Boyle an' th' wains are as hungry as we are," Anna +remarked.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>"Wi' a bogful o' turf at th' doore?"</p> + +<p>"Th' can't eat turf, Jamie!"</p> + +<p>"Th' can warm their shins, that's more'n we can do, in a minute or +two."</p> + +<p>The rapidly diminishing coals were arranged once more. They were a mere +handful now and the house was cold.</p> + +<p>There were two big holes in the chimney where Jamie kept old pipes, pipe +cleaners, bits of rags and scraps of tobacco. He liked to hide a scrap +or two there and in times of scarcity make himself believe he <i>found</i> +them. His last puff of smoke had gone up the chimney hours ago. He +searched both holes without success. A bright idea struck him. He +searched for Boyle's pipe. He searched in vain.</p> + +<p>"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed, "what a breath; a pint ov that wud make a +mule dhrunk!"</p> + +<p>"Thry it, Jamie," Anna said, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Thry it yerself,—yer a good dale more ov a judge!" he said +snappishly.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>A wild gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the loose ashes off +the hearth. Jamie ensconced himself in his corner—a picture of despair.</p> + +<p>"I wondther if Billy O'Hare's in bed?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Ye'd need fumigatin' afther smokin' Billy's tobacco, Jamie!"</p> + +<p>"I'd smoke tobacco scraped out o' the breeches-pocket ov th' oul divil +in hell!" he replied.</p> + +<p>He arose, put on his muffler and made ready to visit the sweep. On the +way to the door another idea turned him back. He put on the bogman's +overcoat and rabbit-skin cap. Anna, divining his intention, said:</p> + +<p>"That's th' first sign of sense I've see in you for a month of Sundays."</p> + +<p>"Ye cudn't see it in a month ov Easther Sundays, aanyway," he retorted +with a superior toss of his head.</p> + +<p>Anna kept up a rapid fire of witty re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>marks. She injected humor into the +situation and laughed like a girl, and although she felt the pangs more +keenly than any of us, her laughter was genuine and natural.</p> + +<p>Jamie had his empty pipe in his mouth and by force of habit he picked up +in the tongs a little bit of live coal to light it. We all tittered.</p> + +<p>"Th' h—l!" he muttered, as he made for the door. Before he reached it +my sister walked in. McGuckin wasn't at home. His wife couldn't pay. We +saw the whole story on her face, every pang of it. Her eyes were red and +swollen. Before she got out a sentence of the tale of woe, she noticed +the old man in Boyle's clothing and burst out laughing. So hearty and +boisterous was it that we all again caught the contagion and laughed +with her. Sorrow was deep-seated. It had its roots away down at the +bottom of things, but laughter was always up near the surface<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> and could +be tapped on the slightest provocation. It was a by-valve—a way of +escape for the overflow. There were times when sorrow was too deep for +tears. But there never was a time when we couldn't laugh!</p> + +<p>People in our town who expected visitors to knock provided a knocker. +The knocker was a distinct line of social demarcation. We lived below +the line. The minister and the tract distributor were the only persons +who ever knocked at our door.</p> + +<p>Scarcely had our laughter died away when the door opened and there +entered in the sweep of a blizzard's tail Billy O'Hare. The gust of cold +winter wind made us shiver again and we drew up closer to the dying +fire—so small now as to be seen with difficulty.</p> + +<p>"Be th' seven crosses ov Arbow, Jamie," he said, "I'm glad yer awake, me +bhoy, if ye hadn't I'd haave pulled ye out be th' tail ov yer shirt!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>"I was jist within an ace ov goin' over an' pullin' ye out be th' heels +myself."</p> + +<p>The chimney-sweep stepped forward and, tapping Jamie on the forehead, +said:</p> + +<p>"Two great minds workin' on th' same thought shud projuce wondtherful +results, Jamie; lend me a chew ov tobacco!"</p> + +<p>"Ye've had larks for supper, Billy; yer jokin'!" Jamie said.</p> + +<p>"Larks be damned," Billy said, "m' tongue's stickin' t' th' roof ov me +mouth!"</p> + +<p>Again we laughed, while the two men stood looking at each +other—speechless.</p> + +<p>"Ye can do switherin' as easy sittin' as standin'," Anna said, and Billy +sat down. The bogman's story was repeated in minutest detail. The sweep +scratched his sooty head and looked wise.</p> + +<p>"It's gone!" Anna said quietly, and we all looked toward the fire. It +was dead. The last spark had been extinguished. We shivered.</p> + +<p>"We don't need so many stools aany<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>way," Jamie said. "I'll get a hatchet +an' we'll haave a fire in no time."</p> + +<p>"T' be freezin' t' death wi a bogman goin' t' waste is unchristian, t' +say th' laste," Billy ventured.</p> + +<p>"Every time we get to th' end of th' tether God appears!" Anna said +reassuringly, as she pinned her shawl closer around her neck.</p> + +<p>"There's nothin' but empty bowels and empty pipes in our house," the +sweep said, "but we've got half a dozen good turf left!"</p> + +<p>"Well, it's a long lane that's got no turnin'—ye might lend us thim," +Jamie suggested.</p> + +<p>"If ye'll excuse m' fur a minit, I'll warm this house, an' may the +Virgin choke m' in th' nixt chimley I sweep if I don't!"</p> + +<p>In a few minutes he returned with six black turf. The fire was rebuilt +and we basked in its warm white glow. The bogman snored on. Billy +inquired about the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> amount of his change. Then he became solicitous +about his comfort on the floor. Each suggestion was a furtive flank +movement on Boyle's loose change.</p> + +<p>Anna saw the bent of his mind and tried to divert his attention.</p> + +<p>"Did ye ever hear, Billy," she said, "that if we stand a dhrunk maan on +his head it sobers him?"</p> + +<p>"Be the powers, no."</p> + +<p>"They say," she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "that it empties him of +his contents."</p> + +<p>"Aye," sighed the sweep, "there's something in that, Anna; let's thry it +on Boyle."</p> + +<p>There was an element of excitement in the suggestion and we youngsters +hoped it would be carried out. Billy made a move to suit the action to +the thought, but Anna pushed him gently back. "Jamie's mouth is as +wathry as yours, Billy, but we'll take no short cuts, we'll go th' long +way around."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>That seemed a death-blow to hope. My sisters began to whimper and +sniffle. We had many devices for diverting hunger. The one always used +as a last resort was the stories of the "great famine." We were +particularly helped by one about a family half of whom died around a pot +of stir-about that had come too late. When we heard Jamie say, "Things +are purty bad, but they're not as bad as they might be," we knew a +famine story was on the way.</p> + +<p>"Hould yer horses there a minute!" Billy O'Hare broke in. He took the +step-ladder and before we knew what he was about he had taken a bunch of +dried rosemary from the roof-beams and was rubbing it in his hands as a +substitute for tobacco.</p> + +<p>After rubbing it between his hands he filled his pipe and began to puff +vigorously.</p> + +<p>"Wud ye luk at 'im!" Jamie exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"I've lived with th' mother ov invintion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> since I was th' size ov a +mushroom," he said between the puffs, "an begorra she's betther nor a +wife." The odor filled the house. It was like the sweet incense of a +censer. The men laughed and joked over the discovery. The sweep indulged +himself in some extravagant, self-laudatory statements, one of which +became a household word with us.</p> + +<p>"Jamie," he said as he removed his pipe and looked seriously at my +father, "who was that poltroon that discovered tobacco?" Anna informed +him.</p> + +<p>"What'll become ov 'im whin compared wid O'Hare, th' inventor of th' +rosemary delection? I ax ye, Jamie, bekase ye're an honest maan."</p> + +<p>"Heaven knows, Billy."</p> + +<p>"Aye, heaven only knows, fur I'll hand down t' m' future ancestors the +O'Hara brand ov rosemary tobacco!"</p> + +<p>"Wondtherful, wondtherful!" Jamie said, in mock solemnity.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>"Aye, t' think," Anna said, "that ye invinted it in our house!"</p> + +<p>We forgot our hunger pangs in the excitement. Jamie filled his pipe and +the two men smoked for a few minutes. Then a fly appeared in the +precious ointment. My father took his pipe out of his mouth and looked +inquisitively at Billy.</p> + +<p>"M' head's spinnin' 'round like a peerie!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Whin did ye ate aanything?" asked the sweep.</p> + +<p>"Yestherday."</p> + +<p>"Aye, well, it's th' mate ye haaven't in yer bowels that's makin' ye +feel quare."</p> + +<p>"What's th' matther wi th' invintor?" Anna asked.</p> + +<p>Billy had removed his pipe and was staring vacantly into space.</p> + +<p>"I'm seein' things two at a time, b' Jazus!" he answered.</p> + +<p>"We've got plenty of nothin' but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> wather, maybe ye'd like a good dhrink, +Billy?"</p> + +<p>Before he could reply the bogman raised himself to a half-sitting +posture, and yelled with all the power of his lungs:</p> + +<p>"Whoa! back, ye dhirty baste, back!" The wild yell chilled the blood in +our veins.</p> + +<p>He sat up, looked at the black figure of the sweep for a moment, then +made a spring at Billy, and before any one could interfere poor Billy +had been felled to the floor with a terrible smash on the jaw. Then he +jumped on him. We youngsters raised a howl that awoke the sleepers in +Pogue's entry. Jamie and Billy soon overpowered Boyle. When the +neighbors arrived they found O'Hare sitting on Boyle's neck and Jamie on +his legs.</p> + +<p>"Where am I?" Boyle asked.</p> + +<p>"In the home of friends," Anna answered.</p> + +<p>"Wud th' frien's donate a mouthful ov breath?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>He was let up. The story of the night was told to him. He listened +attentively. When the story was told he thrust his hand into his pocket +and brought forth some change.</p> + +<p>"Hould yer han' out, ye black imp o' hell," he said to O'Hare. The sweep +obeyed, but remarked that the town clock had already struck twelve. "I +don't care a damn if it's thirteen!" he said. "That's fur bread, that's +fur tay, that's fur tobacco an' that's fur somethin' that runs down yer +throat like a rasp, <i>fur me</i>. Now don't let th' grass grow undther yer +flat feet, ye divil."</p> + +<p>After some minor instructions from Anna, the sweep went off on his +midnight errand. The neighbors were sent home. The kettle replaced the +pot on the chain, and we gathered full of ecstasy close to the fire.</p> + +<p>"Whisht!" Anna said. We listened. Above the roar of the wind and the +rattling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> of the casement we heard a loud noise.</p> + +<p>"It's Billy thunderin' at Marget Hurll's doore," Jamie said.</p> + +<p>O'Hare arrived with a bang! He put his bundles down on the table and +vigorously swung his arms like flails around him to thaw himself out. +Anna arranged the table and prepared the meal. Billy and Jamie went at +the tobacco. Boyle took the whiskey and said:</p> + +<p>"I thank my God an' the holy angels that I'm in th' house ov timperance +payple!" Then looking at Jamie, he said:</p> + +<p>"Here's t' ye, Jamie, an' ye, Anna, an' th' scoundthrel O'Hare, an' +here's t' th' three that niver bred, th' priest, th' pope, an' th' +mule!"</p> + +<p>Then at a draft he emptied the bottle and threw it behind the fire, +grunting his satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"Wudn't that make a corpse turn 'round in his coffin?" Billy said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>"Keep yer eye on that loaf, Billy, or he'll be dhrinkin' our health in +it!" Jamie remarked humorously.</p> + +<p>Boyle stretched himself on the floor and yawned. The little table was +brought near the fire, the loaf was cut in slices and divided. It was a +scene that brought us to the edge of tears—tears of joy. Anna's face +particularly beamed. She talked as she prepared, and her talk was of +God's appearance at the end of every tether, and of the silver lining on +the edge of every cloud. She had a penchant for mottoes, but she never +used them in a siege. It was when the siege was broken she poured them +in and they found a welcome. As she spoke of God bringing relief, Boyle +got up on his haunches.</p> + +<p>"Anna," he said, "if aanybody brot me here th' night it was th' oul +divil in hell."</p> + +<p>"'Deed yer mistaken, Felix," she answered sweetly. "When God sends a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> +maan aanywhere he always gets there, even if he has to be taken there by +th' divil."</p> + +<p>When all was ready we gathered around the table. "How I wish we could +sing!" she said as she looked at us. The answer was on every face. +Hunger would not wait on ceremony. We were awed into stillness and +silence, however, when she raised her hand in benediction. We bowed our +heads. Boyle crossed himself.</p> + +<p>"Father," she said, "we thank Thee for sendin' our friend Felix here th' +night. Bless his wife an' wains, bless them in basket an' store an' take +good care of his oul mare. Amen!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h4>THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop08.png" width="100" height="100" alt="I" title="" /> +</div> +<p> <span class="upper">sat</span> on a fence in a potato field, whittling an alder stick into a +pea-blower one afternoon in the early autumn when I noticed at the other +end of the field the well-known figure of "the master." He was dressed +as usual in light gray and as usual rode a fine horse. I dropped off the +fence as if I had been shot. He urged the horse to a gallop. I pushed +the clumps of red hair under my cap and pressed it down tightly on my +head. Then I adjusted the string that served as a suspender. On came the +galloping horse. A few more lightning touches to what covered my +nakedness and he reined up in front of me! I straightened up like a +piece of whalebone!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>"What are you doing?" he asked in that far-off imperious voice of his.</p> + +<p>"Kapin' th' crows off th' pirtas, yer honor!"</p> + +<p>"You need a new shirt!" he said. The blood rushed to my face. I tried to +answer, but the attempt seemed to choke me.</p> + +<p>"You need a new shirt!" he almost yelled at me. I saw a smile playing +about the corners of his fine large eyes. It gave me courage.</p> + +<p>"Aye, yer honor, 'deed that's thrue."</p> + +<p>"Why don't you get one?" The answer left my mind and traveled like a +flash to the glottis, but that part of the machinery was out of order +and the answer hung fire. I paused, drew a long breath that strained the +string. Then matching his thin smile with a thick grin I replied:</p> + +<p>"Did yer honor iver work fur four shillin's a week and share it wid nine +others?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>"No!" he said and the imprisoned smile was released.</p> + +<p>"Well, if ye iver do, shure ye'll be lucky to haave skin, let alone +shirt!"</p> + +<p>"You consider yourself lucky, then?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, middlin'."</p> + +<p>He galloped away and I lay down flat on my back, wiped the sweat from my +brow with the sleeve of my jacket, turned the hair loose and eased up +the string.</p> + +<p>That night at the first sound of the farm-yard bell I took to my heels +through the fields, through the yard and down the Belfast road to +Withero's stone-pile. Willie was just quitting for the day. I was almost +breathless, but I blurted out what then seemed to me the most important +happening in my life.</p> + +<p>Willie took his eye-protectors off and looked at me.</p> + +<p>"So ye had a crack wi' the masther, did ye?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, quite a crack."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>"He mistuk ye fur a horse!" he said. This damper on my enthusiasm drew +an instant reply.</p> + +<p>"'Deed no, nor an ass naither."</p> + +<p>Willie bundled up his hammers and prepared to go home. He took out his +flint and steel. Over the flint he laid a piece of brown paper, +chemically treated, then he struck the flint a sharp blow with the +steel, a spark was produced, the spark ignited the paper, it began to +burn in a smoldering, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into the bowl +of his pipe, and began the smoke that was to carry him over the journey +home. I shouldered some of his hammers and we trudged along the road +toward Antrim.</p> + +<p>"Throth, I know yer no ass, me bhoy, though Jamie's a good dale ov a +mule, but yer Ma's got wit enough fur the family. That answer ye gave +Misther Chaine was frum yer Ma. It was gey cute an'll git ye a job, I'll +bate."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>I had something else to tell him, but I dreaded his critical mind. When +we got to the railway bridge he laid his hammers on the wall while he +relit his pipe. I saw my last opportunity and seized it.</p> + +<p>"Say, Willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' that made ye feel fine all +over and—and—made ye pray?"</p> + +<p>"I niver pray," he said. "These wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air +jist like oul Hughie Thornton wi' his pockets bulgin' wi' scroof +(crusts). They're naggin at God from Aysther t' Christmas t' fill their +pockets! A good day's stone breakin's my prayer. At night I jist say, +'Thank ye, Father!' In th' mornin' I say 'Morra, Father, how's all up +aroun' th' throne this mornin'?'"</p> + +<p>"An' does He spake t' ye back?"</p> + +<p>"Ov coorse, d'ye think He's got worse manners nor me? He says, 'Hello, +Willie,' says He. 'How's it wi' ye this fine mornin'?' 'Purty fine, +Father, purty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> fine,' says I. But tell me, bhoy, was there a girl aroun' +whin that feelin' struck ye?"</p> + +<p>"Divil a girl, at all!"</p> + +<p>"Them feelin's sometimes comes frum a girl, ye know. I had wan wanst, +but that's a long story, heigh ho; aye, that's a long story!"</p> + +<p>"Did she die, Willie?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind her. That feelin' may haave been from God. Yer Ma hes a +quare notion that wan chile o' her'n will be inclined that way. She's +dhrawn eleven blanks, maybe she's dhrawn a prize, afther all; who +knows."</p> + +<p>Old McCabe, the road mender, overtook us and for the rest of the journey +I was seen but not heard.</p> + +<p>That night I sat by her side in the chimney-corner and recited the +events of the day. It had been full of magic, mystery and meaning to me. +The meaning was a little clearer to me after the recital.</p> + +<p>"Withero sometimes talks like a ha'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>penny book wi' no laves in it," she +said. "But most of the time he's nearer the facts than most of us. It +isn't all blether, dear."</p> + +<p>We sat up late, long after the others had gone to sleep. She read softly +a chapter of "Pilgrim's Progress," the chapter in which he is relieved +of his burden. I see now that woodcut of a gate and over the gate the +words: "Knock and it shall be opened unto you." She had read it before. +I was familiar with it, but in the light of that day's experience it had +a new meaning. She warned me, however, that my name was neither Pilgrim +nor Withero, and in elucidating her meaning she explained the phrase, +"The wind bloweth where it listeth." I learned to listen for the sound +thereof and I wondered from whence it came, not only the wind of the +heavens, but the spirit that moved men in so many directions.</p> + +<p>The last act of that memorable night<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> was the making of a picture. It +took many years to find out its meaning, but every stroke of the brush +is as plain to me now as they were then.</p> + +<p>"Ye'll do somethin' for me?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, aanything in th' world."</p> + +<p>"Ye won't glunch nor ask questions?"</p> + +<p>"Not a question."</p> + +<p>"Shut yer eyes an' stan' close t' th' table." I obeyed. She put into +each hand a smooth stick with which Jamie had smoothed the soles of +shoes.</p> + +<p>"Jist for th' now these are the handles of a plow. Keep yer eyes shut +tight. Ye've seen a maan plowin' a field?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"Think that ye see a long, long field. Ye're plowin' it. The other end +is so far away ye can't see it. Ye see a wee bit of the furrow, jist a +wee bit. Squeeze th' plow handles." I squeezed.</p> + +<p>"D'ye see th' trees yonder?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>"An' th' birds pickin' in th' furrow?"</p> + +<p>"Ay-e."</p> + +<p>She took the sticks away and gently pushed me on a stool and told me I +might open my eyes.</p> + +<p>"That's quare," I said.</p> + +<p>"Listen, dear, ye've put yer han' t' th' plow; ye must niver, niver take +it away. All through life ye'll haave thim plow handles in yer han's an' +ye'll be goin' down th' furrow. Ye'll crack a stone here and there, th' +plow'll stick often an' things'll be out of gear, but yer in th' furrow +all the time. Ye'll change horses, ye'll change clothes, ye'll change +yerself, but ye'll always be in the furrow, plowin', plowin', plowin'! +I'll go a bit of th' way, Jamie'll go a bit, yer brothers an' sisters a +bit, but we'll dhrap out wan b' wan. Ye're God's plowmaan."</p> + +<p>As I stood to say good-night she put her hand on my head and muttered +something that was not intended for me to hear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> Then she kissed me good +night and I climbed to my pallet under the thatch.</p> + +<p>I was afraid to sleep, lest the "feelin'" should take wings. When I was +convinced that some of it, at least, would remain, I tried to sleep and +couldn't. The mingled ecstasy and excitement was too intense. I heard +the town clock strike the hours far into the morning.</p> + +<p>Before she awoke next morning I had exhausted every agency in the house +that would coördinate flesh and spirit. When I was ready I tiptoed to +her bedside and touched her on the cheek. Instantly she awoke and sat +upright. I put my hands on my hips and danced before her. It was a +noiseless dance with bare feet on the mud floor.</p> + +<p>Her long thin arms shot out toward me and I buried myself in them. "So +it stayed," she whispered in my ear.</p> + +<p>"Aye, an' there's more of it."</p> + +<p>She arose and dressed quickly. A live<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> coal was scraped out of the ashes +and a turf fire built around it. My feet were winged as I flew to the +town well for water. When I returned she had several slices of toast +ready. Toast was a luxury. Of course there was always—or nearly +always—bread, and often there was butter, but toast to the very poor in +those days wasn't merely a matter of bread and butter, fire and time! It +was more often inclination that turned the balance for or against it, +and inclination always came on the back of some emotion, chance or +circumstance. Here all the elements met and the result was toast.</p> + +<p>I took a mouthful of her tea out of her cup; she reciprocated. We were +like children. Maybe we were. Love tipped our tongues, winged our feet, +opened our hearts and hands and permeated every thought and act. She +stood at the mouth of the entry until I disappeared at the town head. +While I was yet within sight I looked back half a dozen times and we +waved our hands.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>It was nearly a year before a dark line entered this spiritual spectrum. +It was inevitable that such a mental condition—ever in search of a +larger expression—should gravitate toward the Church. It has seemed +also that it was just as inevitable that the best thought of which the +Church has been the custodian should be crystallized into a creed. I was +promoted to the "big house." There, of course, I was overhauled and put +in touch with the fittings and furniture. As a flunkey I had my first +dose of boiled linen and I liked it.</p> + +<p>I was enabled now to attend church and Sunday School. Indeed, I would +have gone there, religion or no religion, for where else could I have +sported a white shirt and collar? With my boiled linen and my brain +stuffed with texts I gradually drew away from the chimney-corner and +never again did I help Willie Withero to carry his hammers. Ah, if one +could only go back over life and correct the mistakes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>Gradually I lost the warm human feeling and substituted for it a +theology. I began to look upon my mother as one about whose salvation +there was some doubt. I urged her to attend church. Forms and ceremonies +became the all-important things and the life and the spirit were +proportionately unimportant. I became mildewed with the blight of +respectability. I became the possessor of a hard hat that I might ape +the respectables. I walked home every night from Ballycraigie with Jamie +Wallace, and Jamie was the best-dressed working man in the town. I was +treading a well-worn pathway. I was "getting on." A good slice of my new +religion consisted in excellency of service to my employers—my +"betters." Preacher, priest and peasant thought alike on these topics. +Anna was pleased to see me in a new garb, but she noticed and I noticed +that I had grown away from the corner. In the light of my new adjustment +I saw <i>duties</i> plainer,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> but duty may become a hammer by which affection +may be beaten to death.</p> + +<p>I imagined the plow was going nicely in the furrow, for I wasn't +conscious of striking any snags or stones, but Anna said:</p> + +<p>"A plowman who skims th' surface of th' sod strikes no stones, dear, but +it's because he isn't plowin' <i>deep</i>!"</p> + +<p>I have plowed deep enough since, but too late to go back and compare +notes.</p> + +<p>She was pained, but tried to hide it. If she was on the point of tears +she would tell a funny story.</p> + +<p>"Acushla," she said to me one night after a theological discussion, +"sure ye remind me of a ducklin' hatched by a hen."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"We're at home in conthrary elements. Ye use texts t' fight with an' I +use thim to get pace of heart!"</p> + +<p>"Are you wiser nor Mr. Holmes, an' William Brennan an' Miss McGee?" I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +asked. "Them's th' ones that think as I do—I mane I think as they do!"</p> + +<p>"No, 'deed I'm not as wise as aany of thim, but standin' outside a wee +bit I can see things that can't be seen inside. Forby they haave no +special pathway t' God that's shut t' me, nor yer oul father nor Willie +Withero!"</p> + +<p>Sometimes Jamie took a hand. Once when he thought Anna was going to cry, +in an argument, he wheeled around in his seat and delivered himself.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell ye, Anna, that whelp needs a good argyment wi' th' tongs! +Jist take thim an' hit 'im a skite on the jaw wi' thim an' I'll say, +'Amen.'"</p> + +<p>"That's no clinch to an argyment," I said, "an thruth is thruth!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, an' tongs is tongs! An' some o' ye young upstarts whin ye get a +dickey on an' a choke-me-tight collar think yer jist ready t' sit down +t' tay wi' God!"</p> + +<p>Anna explained and gave me more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> credit than was due me. So Jamie ended +the colloquy by the usual cap to his every climax.</p> + +<p>"Well, what th' —— do I know about thim things, aanyway. Let's haave a +good cup o' tay an' say no more about it!"</p> + +<p>The more texts I knew the more fanatical I became. And the more of a +fanatic I was the wider grew the chasm that divided me from my mother. I +talked as if I knew "every saint in heaven and every divil in hell."</p> + +<p>She was more than patient with me, though my spiritual conceit must have +given her many a pang. Antrim was just beginning to get accustomed to my +new habiliments of boots, boiled linen and hat when I left to "push my +fortune" in other parts. My enthusiasm had its good qualities too, and +she was quick to recognize them, quicker than to notice its blemishes. +My last hours in the town—on the eve of my first departure—I spent +with her. "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> feel about you, dear," she said, laughing, "as Micky Free +did about the soul of his father in Purgatory. He had been payin' for +masses for what seemed to him an uncommonly long time. 'How's th' oul +bhoy gettin' on?' Micky asked the priest. 'Purty well, Micky, his head +is out.' 'Begorra, thin, I know th' rist ov 'im will be out soon—I'll +pay for no more masses!' Your head is up and out from the bottom of th' +world, and I haave faith that ye'll purty soon be all out, an' some day +ye'll get the larger view, for ye'll be in a larger place an' ye'll +haave seen more of people an' more of the world."</p> + +<p>I have two letters of that period. One I wrote her from Jerusalem in the +year 1884. As I read the yellow, childish epistle I am stung with +remorse that it is full of the narrow sectarianism that still held me in +its grip. The other is dated Antrim, July, 1884, and is her answer to my +sectarian appeal.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>"Dear boy," she says, "Antrim has had many soldier sons in far-off +lands, but you are the first, I think, to have the privilege of visiting +the Holy Land. Jamie and I are proud of you. All the old friends have +read your letter. They can hardly believe it. Don't worry about our +souls. When we come one by one in the twilight of life, each of us, +Jamie and I, will have our sheaves. They will be little ones, but we are +little people. I want no glory here or hereafter that Jamie cannot +share. I gave God a plowman, but your father says I must chalk half of +that to his account. Hold tight the handles and plow deep. We watch the +candle and every wee spark thrills our hearts, for we know it's a letter +from you.</p> + +<p> +"Your loving mother."<br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h4>"BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' TH' CLOUDS"</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop09.png" width="100" height="102" alt="W" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">hen</span> the bill-boards announced that I was to deliver a lecture on +"England in the Soudan" in the only hall in the town, Antrim turned out +to satisfy its curiosity. "How doth this man know, not having learned," +the wise ones said, for when I shook the dust of its blessed streets +from my brogues seven years previously I was an illiterate.</p> + +<p>Anna could have told them, but none of the wise knew her, for curiously +enough to those who knew of her existence, but had never seen her, she +was known as "Jamie's wife." Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers +were there; several ministers, some quality, near quality, the +inhabitants of the entries in the "Scotch quarter" and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> all the newsboys +in town. The fact that I personally bribed the newsboys accounted for +their presence. I bought them out and reserved the front seats for them. +It was in the way of a class reunion with me. Billy O'Hare had gone +beyond—where there are no chimneys, and Ann where she could keep clean: +they were both dead. Many of the old familiar faces were absent, they +too had gone—some to other lands, some to another world. Jamie was +there. He sat between Willie Withero and Ben Baxter. He heard little of +what was said and understood less of what he heard. The vicar, Mr. +Holmes, presided. There was a vote of thanks, followed by the customary +seconding by public men, then "God save the Queen," and I went home to +tell Anna about it.</p> + +<p>Jamie took one arm and Withero clung to the other.</p> + +<p>"Jamie!" shouted Withero in a voice that could be heard by the crowd +that fol<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>lowed us, "d'ye mind th' first time I seen ye wi' Anna?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, 'deed I do!"</p> + +<p>"Ye didn't know it was in 'er, did ye, Jamie?"</p> + +<p>"Yer a liar, Willie; I know'd frum th' minute I clapped eyes on 'er that +she was th' finest wuman on God's futstool!"</p> + +<p>"Ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' doubt there is, Jamie, but jist +th' same any oul throllop can be a father, but by G— it takes a rale +wuman t' be th' mother ov a rale maan! Put that in yer pipe an' smoke +it."</p> + +<p>"He seems t' think," said Jamie, appealing to me, "that only quality can +projuce fine childther!"</p> + +<p>"Yer spakin' ov clothes, Jamie; I'm spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind +th' doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but begorra, Anna was at th' head +ov th' class, an' that's no feerie story, naither, is it, me bhoy?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>At the head of Pogue's entry, Bob Dougherty, Tommy Wilson, Sam +Manderson, Lucinda Gordon and a dozen others stopped for a "partin' +crack."</p> + +<p>The kettle was boiling on the chain. The hearth had been swept and a new +coat of whitening applied. There was a candle burning in her sconce and +the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face—a glory that was +encased in a newly tallied white cap. My sister sat on one side of the +fireplace and she on the other—in her corner. I did not wonder, I did +not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture—I +knew. They were more supremely interested than I was. They had never +heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their +last chance had passed by. There they were, in the light of a peat fire +and the tallow dip, supremely happy.</p> + +<p>The neighbors came in for a word with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> Anna. They filled the space. The +stools and creepies were all occupied.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, Willie," my father said. "Take a nice cushioned chair an' be +at home." Withero was leaning against the table. He saw and was equal to +the joke.</p> + +<p>"Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th' +groun', Jamie!" And down he sat on the mud floor.</p> + +<p>"It's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," Marget Hurll said, "an +Misther Armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn +out a boy like him!"</p> + +<p>Withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes—as a +preface to a few remarks.</p> + +<p>"Aye," he grunted, "I cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul Jamie whin +Armshtrong said that. Jamie cudn't hear it, so I whispered t' m'self, +'Begorra, if a wee fella<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> turns <i>up</i> whin Anthrim turns 'im out it's +little credit t' Anthrim I'm thinkin'!'"</p> + +<p>Anna laughed and Jamie, putting his hand behind his ear, asked:</p> + +<p>"What's that—what's that?"</p> + +<p>The name and remarks of the gentleman who seconded the vote of thanks +were repeated to him.</p> + +<p>"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed as he slapped me on the knee. "Well, well, +well, if that wudn't make a brass monkey laugh!"</p> + +<p>"Say," he said to me, "d'ye mind th' night ye come home covered wi' +clabber—"</p> + +<p>"Whisht!" I said, as I put my mouth to his ear. "I only want to mind +that he had three very beautiful daughters!"</p> + +<p>"Did ye iver spake t' aany o' thim?" Jamie asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Whin?"</p> + +<p>"When I sold them papers."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>"Ha, ha, a ha'penny connection, eh?"</p> + +<p>"It's betther t' mind three fine things about a maan than wan mean +thing, Jamie," Anna said.</p> + +<p>"If both o' ye's on me I'm bate," he said.</p> + +<p>"Stop yer palaver an' let's haave a story ov th' war wi' th' naygars in +Egypt," Mrs. Hurll said.</p> + +<p>"Aye, that's right," one of the Gainer boys said. "Tell us what th' +queen give ye a medal fur!"</p> + +<p>They wanted a story of blood, so I smeared the tale red. When I finished +Anna said, "Now tell thim, dear, what ye tuk th' shillin' fur!"</p> + +<p>"You tell them, mother."</p> + +<p>"Ye tuk it t' fight ignorance an' not naygars, didn't ye?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but that fight continues."</p> + +<p>"Aye, with you, but—"</p> + +<p>"Ah, never mind, mother, I have taken it up where you laid it down, and +long<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> after—" that was far as I got, for Jamie exploded just then and +said:</p> + +<p>"Now get t' h—l home, ivery wan o' ye, an' give 's a minute wi' 'im +jist for ourselves, will ye?"</p> + +<p>He said it with laughter in his voice and it sounded in the ears of +those present as polite and pleasing as anything in the domain of their +amenities.</p> + +<p>They arose as one, all except Withero, and he couldn't, for Jamie +gripped him by a leg and held him on the floor just as he sat.</p> + +<p>In their good-night expressions the neighbors unconsciously revealed +what the lecture and the story meant to them. Summed up it meant, "Sure +it's jist wondtherful ye warn't shot!"</p> + +<p>When we were alone, alone with Withero, Mary "wet" a pot of tea and +warmed up a few farrels of fadges! and we commenced. Little was said, +but feeling ran high. It was like a midnight mass.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> Anna was silent, but +there were tears, and as I held her in my arms and kissed them away +Jamie was saying to Withero:</p> + +<p>"Ye might take 'im fur a dandther out where ye broke whin we first met +ye, Willie!"</p> + +<p>"Aye," Willie said, "I'm m' own gaffer, I will that."</p> + +<p>I slept at Jamie Wallace's that night, and next morning took the +"dandther" with Withero up the Dublin road, past "The Mount of +Temptation" to the old stone-pile that was no longer a pile, but a hole +in the side of the road. It was a sentimental journey that gave Willie a +chance to say some things I knew he wanted to say.</p> + +<p>"D'ye mind the pirta sack throusers Anna made ye onct?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, what of them?"</p> + +<p>"Did ye iver think ye cud git used t' aanything if ye wor forced t' +haave nothin' else fur a while?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>"What's the point, Willie?"</p> + +<p>"Sit down here awhile an' I'll tell ye."</p> + +<p>We sat down on the bank of the roadside. He took out his pipe, steel and +flint, filled his pipe and talked as he filled.</p> + +<p>"Me an' Jamie wor pirta sack people, purty damned rough, too, but yer Ma +was a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she walked down this road wi' yer +Dah till this minit whin she's waitin' fur ye in the corner. Ivery +Sunday I've gone in jist t' hai a crack wi' 'er an' d'ye know, bhoy, I +got out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' week. She was i' hell on +sayin' words purcisely, but me an' Jamie wor too thick, an' begorra she +got used t' pirta sack words herself, but she was i' fine linen jist th' +same.</p> + +<p>"Wan day she says t' me, 'Willie,' says she, 'ye see people through +dirty specs.' 'How's that?' says I. 'I don't know,' says she, 'fur I +don't wear yer specs, but I think it's jist a poor habit ov yer mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +Aych poor craither is made up ov some good an' much that isn't s' good, +an' ye see only what isn't s' good!'</p> + +<p>"Thin she towld m' somethin' which she niver towld aanyone else, 'cept +yer Dah, ov coorse. 'Willie,' says she, 'fur twenty years I've seen th' +Son ov Maan ivery day ov m' life!'</p> + +<p>"'How's that?' says I.</p> + +<p>"'I've more'n seen 'm. I've made tay fur 'im, an' broth on Sunday. I've +mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked +'is hair an' said kind words to 'im!'</p> + +<p>"'God Almighty!' says I, 'yer goin' mad, Anna!' She tuk her oul Bible +an' read t' me these words; I mind thim well:</p> + +<p>"'Whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers ye do it t' me!'</p> + +<p>"Well, me bhoy, I thunk an' I thunk over thim words an' wud ye believe +it—I begun t' clane m' specs. Wan day th' 'Dummy' came along t' m' +stone-pile.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> Ye mind 'er, don't ye?" (The Dummy was a harlot, who lived +in the woods up the Dublin road in summer, and Heaven only knows where +in winter.)</p> + +<p>"Th' Dummy," Willie continued, "came over t' th' pile an' acted purty +gay, but says I, 'Dummy, if there's anythin' I kin give ye I'll give it, +but there's nothin' ye kin give me!'</p> + +<p>"'Ye break stones fur a livin',' says she.</p> + +<p>"'Aye,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'What wud ye do if ye wor a lone wuman an' cudn't get nothin' at all t' +do?'</p> + +<p>"'I dunno,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'I don't want to argufy or palaver wi' a dacent maan,' says she, 'but +I'm terrible hungry.'</p> + +<p>"'Luk here,' says I, 'I've got a dozen pirtas I'm goin' t' roast fur m' +dinner. I'll roast thim down there be that gate, an' I'll lave ye six +an' a dhrink ov butthermilk. Whin ye see m' lave th' gate ye'll know yer +dinner's ready.'</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>"'God save ye,' says she, 'may yer meal barrel niver run empty an' may +yer bread foriver be roughcasted wi' butther!'</p> + +<p>"I begun t' swither whin she left. Says I, 'Withero, is yer specs clane? +Kin ye see th' Son ov Maan in th' Dummy?' 'Begorra, I dunno,' says I t' +m'self. I scratched m' head an' swithered till I thought m' brains wud +turn t' stone.</p> + +<p>"Says I t' m'self at last, 'Aye, 'deed there must be th' spark there +what Anna talks about!' Jist then I heard yer mother's voice as plain as +I hear m' own now at this minute—an' what d'ye think Anna says?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know, Willie."</p> + +<p>"'So ye haave th' Son ov Maan t' dinner th' day?' 'Aye,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'An' givin' 'im yer lavins!'</p> + +<p>"It was like a piece ov stone cuttin' the ball ov m' eye. It cut deep!</p> + +<p>"I ran down th' road an' says I t' th' Dummy, 'I'll tie a rag on a stick +an' whin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> ye see m' wavin' it come an' take yer dinner an' I'll take +what's left!'</p> + +<p>"I didn't wait fur no answer, but went and did what I shud.</p> + +<p>"That summer whin she was hungry she hung an oul rag on th' thorn hedge +down be the wee plantain where she camped, and I answered be a rag on a +stick that she cud share mine and take hers first. One day I towld 'er +yer mother's story about th' Son ov Maan. It was th' only time I ever +talked wi' 'er. That winther she died in th' poorhouse and before she +died she sint me this." He pulled out of an inside pocket a piece of +paper yellow with age and so scuffed with handling that the scrawl was +scarcely legible:</p> + +<p class="blockquot"><br /> +<i>Mr. Withero</i><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stone breaker</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Dublin Road</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Antrim</span><br /><br /> + + +"I seen Him in the ward last night and I'm content to go now. God save +you kindly.<br /> +<span class="signature"> +<span class="smcap">The Dummy."</span></span><br /> +</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>Withero having unburdened, we dandered down the road, through Masserene +and home.</p> + +<p>I proposed to Anna a little trip to Lough Neagh in a jaunting car.</p> + +<p>"No, dear, it's no use; I want to mind it jist as Jamie and I saw it +years an' years ago. I see it here in th' corner jist as plain as I saw +it then; forby Antrim wud never get over th' shock of seein' me in a +jauntin' car."</p> + +<p>"Then I'll tell you of a shorter journey. You have never seen the +Steeple. It's the most perfect of all the Round Towers in Ireland and +just one mile from this corner. Now don't deny me the joy of taking you +there. I'll guide you over the strand and away back of the poorhouse, +out at the station, and then it's just a hundred yards or so!"</p> + +<p>It took the combined efforts of Jamie, Withero, Mary and me to persuade +her, but she was finally persuaded, and dressed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> in a borrowed black +knitted cap and her wee Sunday shawl, she set out with us.</p> + +<p>"This is like a weddin'," Jamie said, as he tied the ribbons under her +chin.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's worse, dear. It's a circus an' wake in wan, fur I'm about dead +an' he's turned clown for a while." In five minutes everybody in Pogue's +entry heard the news. They stood at the door waiting to have a look.</p> + +<p>Matty McGrath came in to see if there was "aanythin'" she could do.</p> + +<p>"Aye," Anna said, smiling, "ye can go over an' tell oul Ann Agnew where +I'm goin' so she won't worry herself t' death findin' out!"</p> + +<p>"She won't see ye," Jamie said.</p> + +<p>"She'd see a fly if it lit within a hundred yards of her!"</p> + +<p>We went down the Kill entry and over the rivulet we called "the strand." +There were stepping stones in the water and the passage was easy. As we +crossed she said:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>"Right here was th' first place ye ever came t' see th' sun dance on th' +water on Easter Sunday mornin'."</p> + +<p>We turned to the right and walked by the old burying ground of the +Unitarian meeting-house and past Mr. Smith's garden. Next to Smith's +garden was the garden of a cooper—I think his name was Farren. "Right +here," I said, "is where I commited my first crime!"</p> + +<p>"What was it?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Stealing apples!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, what a townful of criminals we had then!"</p> + +<p>We reached the back of the poorhouse. James Gardner was the master of +it, and "goin' t' Jamie Gardner" was understood as the last march of +many of the inhabitants of Antrim, beginning with "Totther Jack Welch," +who was a sort of pauper <i>primus inter pares</i> of the town.</p> + +<p>As we passed the little graveyard, we stood and looked over the fence at +the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> little boards, all of one size and one pattern, that marked each +grave.</p> + +<p>"God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "isn't it fearful not to git rid of +poverty even in death!" I saw a shudder pass over her face and I turned +mine away.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later we emerged from the fields at the railway station.</p> + +<p>"You've never seen Mr. McKillop, the station master, have you?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Let us wait here for a minute, we may see him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, let's hurry on t' th' Steeple!" So on we hurried.</p> + +<p>It took a good deal of courage to enter when we got there, for the +far-famed Round Tower of Antrim is <i>private property</i>. Around it is a +stone wall enclosing the grounds of an estate. The Tower stands near the +house of the owner, and it takes temerity in the poor to enter.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> They +seldom do enter, as a matter of fact, for they are not particularly +interested in archeology.</p> + +<p>We timidly entered and walked up to the Tower.</p> + +<p>"So that's th' Steeple!"</p> + +<p>"Isn't it fine?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, it's wondtherful, but wudn't it be nice t' take our boots off an' +jist walk aroun' on this soft nice grass on our bare feet?"</p> + +<p>The lawn was closely clipped and as level as a billiard table. The trees +were dressed in their best summer clothing. Away in the distance we +caught glimpses of an abundance of flowers. The air was full of the +perfume of honeysuckle and sweet clover. Anna drank in the scenery with +almost childish delight.</p> + +<p>"D'ye think heaven will be as nice?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Maybe."</p> + +<p>"If it is, we will take our boots off an'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> sit down, won't we?" And she +laughed like a girl.</p> + +<p>"If there are boots in the next world," I said, "there will be cobblers, +and you wouldn't want our old man to be a cobbler to all eternity?"</p> + +<p>"You're right," she said, "nor afther spending seventy-five years here +without bein' able to take my boots off an' walk on a nice lawn like +this wud I care to spend eternity without that joy!"</p> + +<p>"Do we miss what we've never had?"</p> + +<p>"Aye, 'deed we do. I miss most what I've never had!"</p> + +<p>"What, for instance?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll tell ye th' night when we're alone!"</p> + +<p>We walked around the Tower and ventured once beneath the branches of a +big tree.</p> + +<p>"If we lived here, d'ye know what I'd like t' do?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>"Jist take our boots off an' play hide and go seek—wudn't it be fun?"</p> + +<p>I laughed loudly.</p> + +<p>"Whisht!" she said. "They'll catch us if you make a noise!"</p> + +<p>"You seem bent on getting your boots off!" I said laughingly. Her reply +struck me dumb.</p> + +<p>"Honey," she said, so softly and looking into my eyes, "do ye realize +that I have never stood on a patch of lawn in my life before?"</p> + +<p>Hand in hand we walked toward the gate, taking an occasional, wistful +glance back at the glory of the few, and thinking, both of us, of the +millions of tired feet that never felt the softness of a smooth green +sward.</p> + +<p>At eight o'clock that night the door was shut <i>and barred</i>.</p> + +<p>Jamie tacked several copies of the <i>Weekly Budget</i> over the window and +we were alone.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>We talked of old times. We brought back the dead and smiled or sighed +over them. Old tales, of the winter nights of long ago, were retold with +a new interest.</p> + +<p>The town clock struck nine.</p> + +<p>We sat in silence as we used to sit, while another sexton tolled off the +days of the month after the ringing of the curfew.</p> + +<p>"Many's th' time ye've helter-skeltered home at th' sound of that bell!" +she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, because the sound of the bell was always accompanied by a vision +of a wet welt hanging over the edge of the tub!"</p> + +<p>Jamie laughed and became reminiscent.</p> + +<p>"D'ye mind what ye said wan time whin I bate ye wi' th' stirrup?"</p> + +<p>"No, but I used to think a good deal more than I said."</p> + +<p>"Aye, but wan time I laid ye across m' knee an' give ye a good +shtrappin', then stud ye up an' says I, 'It hurts me worse than it hurts +ye, ye divil!'</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>"'Aye,' says you, 'but it dizn't hurt ye in th' same place!'</p> + +<p>"I don't remember, but from time immemorial boys have thought and said +the same thing."</p> + +<p>"D'ye mind when <i>I</i> bate ye?" Anna asked with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I remember you solemnly promised Jamie you would punish me and +when he went down to Barney's you took a long straw and lashed me +fearfully with it!"</p> + +<p>The town clock struck ten.</p> + +<p>Mary, who had sat silent all evening, kissed us all good night and went +to bed.</p> + +<p>I was at the point of departure for the New World. Jamie wanted to know +what I was going to do. I outlined an ambition, but its outworking was a +problem. It was beyond his ken. He could not take in the scope of it. +Anna could, for she had it from the day she first felt the movement of +life in me. It was unpretentious—nothing the world would call great.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>"Och, maan, but that wud be th' proud day fur Anna if ye cud do it."</p> + +<p>When the town clock struck eleven, Anna trembled.</p> + +<p>"Yer cowld, Anna," he said. "I'll put on a few more turf."</p> + +<p>"There's plenty on, dear; I'm not cold in my body."</p> + +<p>"Acushla, m' oul hide's like a buffalo's or I'd see that ye want 'im t' +yerself. I'm off t' bed!"</p> + +<p>We sat in silence gazing into the peat fire. Memory led me back down the +road to yesterday. She was out in the future and wandering in an unknown +continent with only hope to guide her. Yet we must get together, and +that quickly.</p> + +<p>"Minutes are like fine gold now," she said, "an' my tongue seems glued, +but I jist must spake."</p> + +<p>"We have plenty of time, mother."</p> + +<p>"Plenty!" she exclaimed. "Every clang of th' town clock is a knife +cuttin'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> th' cords—wan afther another—that bind me t' ye."</p> + +<p>"I want to know about your hope, your outlook, your religion," I said.</p> + +<p>"Th' biggest hope I've ever had was t' bear a chile that would love +everybody as yer father loved me!"</p> + +<p>"A sort of John-three-sixteen in miniature."</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"The aim is high enough to begin with!"</p> + +<p>"Not too high!"</p> + +<p>"And your religion?"</p> + +<p>"All in all, it's bein' kind an' lovin' kindness. <i>That</i> takes in God +an' maan an' Pogue's entry an' th' world."</p> + +<p>The town clock struck twelve. Each clang "a knife cutting a cord" and +each heavier and sharper than the last. Each one vibrating, tingling, +jarring along every nerve, sinew and muscle. A feeling of numbness crept +over me.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>"That's the end of life for me," she said slowly. There was a pause, +longer and more intense than all the others.</p> + +<p>"Maybe ye'll get rich an' forget."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I shall be rich. I shall be a millionaire—a millionaire of love, +but no one shall ever take your place, dear!"</p> + +<p>My overcoat served as a pillow. An old quilt made a pallet on the hard +floor. I found myself being pressed gently down from the low creepie to +the floor. I pretended to sleep. Her hot tears fell on my face. Her dear +toil-worn fingers were run gently through my hair. She was on her knees +by my side. The tender mysticism of her youth came back and expressed +itself in prayer. It was interspersed with tears and "Ave Maria!"</p> + +<p>When the first streak of dawn penetrated the old window we had our last +cup of tea together and later, when I held her in a long, lingering +embrace, there were no tears—we had shed them all in the silence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> of +the last vigil. When I was ready to go, she stood with her arm on the +old yellow mantel-shelf. She was rigid and pale as death, but around her +eyes and her mouth there played a smile. There was a look ineffable of +maternal love.</p> + +<p>"We shall meet again, mother," I said.</p> + +<p>"Aye, dearie, I know rightly we'll meet, but ochanee, it'll be out there +beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> +</div> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h4>THE EMPTY CORNER</h4> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 100px;"> +<img src="images/drop10.png" width="100" height="99" alt="W" title="" /> +</div> +<p><span class="upper">hen</span> I walked into Pogue's entry about fifteen years later, it seemed +like walking into another world—I was a foreigner.</p> + +<p>"How quare ye spake!" Jamie said, and Mary added demurely:</p> + +<p>"Is it quality ye are that ye spake like it?"</p> + +<p>"No, faith, not at all," I said, "but it's the quality of America that +makes me!"</p> + +<p>"Think of that, now," she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>The neighbors came, new neighbors—a new generation, to most of whom I +was a tradition. Other boys and girls had left Antrim for America, +scores of them in the course of the years. There was a popular +supposition that we all knew each other.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>"Ye see th' Wilson bhoys ivery day, I'll bate," Mrs. Hainey said.</p> + +<p>"No, I have never seen any of them."</p> + +<p>"Saints alive, how's that?"</p> + +<p>"Because we live three thousand miles apart."</p> + +<p>"Aye, well, shure that 'ud be quite a dandther!"</p> + +<p>"It didn't take ye long t' git a fortune, did it?" another asked.</p> + +<p>"I never acquired a fortune such as you are thinking of."</p> + +<p>"Anna said ye wor rich!"</p> + +<p>"Anna was right, I am rich, but I was the richest boy in Antrim when I +lived here."</p> + +<p>They looked dumbfounded.</p> + +<p>"How's that?" Mrs. Conner queried.</p> + +<p>"Because Anna was my mother."</p> + +<p>I didn't want to discuss Anna at that time or to that gathering, so I +gave the conversation a sudden turn and diplomatically led them in +another direction. I ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>plained how much easier it was for a policeman +than a minister to make a "fortune" and most Irishmen in America had a +special bias toward law! Jamie had grown so deaf that he could only hear +when I shouted into his ear. Visitors kept on coming, until the little +house was uncomfortably full.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't it be fine," I shouted into Jamie's ear, "if Billy O'Hare or +Withero could just drop in now?"</p> + +<p>"God save us all," he said, "th' oul days an' oul faces are gone +foriver." After some hours of entertainment the uninvited guests were +invited to go home.</p> + +<p>I pulled Jamie's old tub out into the center of the floor and, taking my +coat off, said gently: "Now, good neighbors, I have traveled a long +distance and need a bath, and if you don't mind I'll have one at once!"</p> + +<p>They took it quite seriously and went home quickly. As soon as the house +was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> cleared I shut and barred the door and Mary and I proceeded to +prepare the evening meal.</p> + +<p>I brought over the table and put it in its place near the fire. In +looking over the old dresser I noticed several additions to the +inventory I knew. The same old plates were there, many of them broken +and arranged to appear whole. All holes, gashes, dents and cracks were +turned back or down to deceive the beholder. There were few whole pieces +on the dresser.</p> + +<p>"Great guns, Mary," I exclaimed, "here are two new plates and a new cup! +Well, well, and you never said a word in any of your letters about +them."</p> + +<p>"Ye needn't get huffed if we don't tell ye all the startlin' things!" +Mary said.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" I exclaimed, "there's <i>her</i> cup!" I took the precious thing from +the shelf. The handle was gone, there was a gash at the lip and a few +new cracks circling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> around the one I was familiar with twenty years +previously.</p> + +<p>What visions of the past came to me in front of that old dresser! How +often in the long ago she had pushed that old cup gently toward me along +the edge of the table—gently, to escape notice and avoid jealousy. +Always at the bottom of it a teaspoonful of <i>her</i> tea and beneath the +tea a bird's-eye-full of sugar. Each fairy picture of straggling tea +leaves was our moving picture show of those old days. We all had tea +leaves, but she had imagination. How we laughed and sighed and swithered +over the fortunes spread out all over the inner surface of that cup!</p> + +<p>"If ye stand there affrontin' our poor oul delf all night we won't haave +aany tea at all!" Mary said. The humor had gone from my face and speech +from my tongue. I felt as one feels when he looks for the last time upon +the face of his best friend. Mary laughed when I laid the old cup on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> a +comparatively new saucer at my place. There was another laugh when I +laid it out for customs inspection in the port of New York. I had a set +of rather delicate after-dinner coffee cups. One bore the arms of +Coventry in colors; another had the seal of St. John's College, Oxford; +one was from Edinburgh and another from Paris. They looked aristocratic. +I laid them out in a row and at the end of the row sat the proletarian, +forlorn and battered—Anna's old tea-cup.</p> + +<p>"What did you pay for this?" asked the inspector as he touched it +contemptuously with his official toe.</p> + +<p>"Never mind what I paid for it," I replied, "it's valued at a million +dollars!" The officer laughed and I think the other cups laughed also, +but they were not contemptuous; they were simply jealous.</p> + +<p>Leisurely I went over the dresser, noting the new chips and cracks, +handling them,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> maybe fondling some of them and putting them as I found +them.</p> + +<p>"I'll jist take a cup o' tay," Jamie said, "I'm not feelin' fine."</p> + +<p>I had less appetite than he had, and Mary had less than either of us. So +we sipped our tea for awhile in silence.</p> + +<p>"She didn't stay long afther ye left," Jamie said, without looking up. +Turning to Mary he continued, "How long was it, aanyway, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"Jist a wee while."</p> + +<p>"Aye, I know it wasn't long."</p> + +<p>"Did she suffer much?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"She didn't suffer aany at all," he said, "she jist withered like th' +laves on th' threes."</p> + +<p>"She jist hankered t' go," Mary added.</p> + +<p>"Wan night whin Mary was asleep," Jamie continued, "she read over again +yer letther—th' wan where ye wor spakin' so much about fishin'."</p> + +<p>"Aye," I said, "I had just been appointed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> missionary to a place called +the Bowery, in New York, and I wrote her that I was no longer her +plowman, but her <i>fisher of men</i>."</p> + +<p>"Och, maan, if ye cud haave heard her laugh over th' different kinds ov +fishes ye wor catchin'! Iv'ry day for weeks she read it an' laughed an' +cried over it. That night she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I don't +care s' much fur fishers ov men as I do for th' plowman.' 'Why?' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Because,' says she, 'a gey good voice an' nice clothes will catch men, +an' wimen too, but it takes brains t' plow up th' superstitions ov th' +ignorant.'</p> + +<p>"'There's somethin' in that,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Tell 'im whin he comes,' says she, 'that I put th' handles ov a plow +in his han's an' he's t' let go ov thim only in death.'</p> + +<p>"'I'll tell 'm,' says I, 'but it's yerself that'll be here whin he +comes,' says I. She smiled like an' says she, 'What ye don't know, +Jamie, wud make a pretty big<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> library.' 'Aye,' says I, 'I haaven't aany +doubt ov that, Anna.'"</p> + +<p>"There was a loud knock at the door."</p> + +<p>"Let thim dundther," Mary said. He put his hand behind his ear and asked +eagerly:</p> + +<p>"What is 't?"</p> + +<p>"Somebody's dundtherin'."</p> + +<p>"Let thim go t' h——," he said angrily.</p> + +<p>"Th' tuk 'im frum Anna last time, th' won't take 'im frum me an' you, +Mary."</p> + +<p>Another and louder knock.</p> + +<p>"It's Misthress Healy," came a voice. Again his hand was behind his ear. +The name was repeated to him.</p> + +<p>"Misthress Healy, is it; well, I don't care a d—n if it was Misthress +Toe-y!"</p> + +<p>For a quarter of a century my sister has occupied my mother's +chimney-corner, but it was vacant that night. She sat on my father's +side of the fire. He and I sat opposite each other at the table—I on +the same spot, on the same stool where I used<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> to sit when her cup +toward the close of the meal came traveling along the edge of the table +and where her hand with a crust in it would sometimes blindly grope for +mine.</p> + +<p>But she was not there. In all my life I have never seen a space so +empty!</p> + +<p>My father was a peasant, with all the mental and physical +characteristics of his class. My sister is a peasant woman who has been +cursed with the same grinding poverty that cursed my mother's life. +About my mother there was a subtlety of intellect and a spiritual +quality that even in my ignorance was fascinating to me. I returned +equipped to appreciate it and she was gone. Gone, and a wide gulf lay +between those left behind, a gulf bridged by the relation we have to the +absent one more than by the relation we bore to each other.</p> + +<p>We felt as keenly as others the kinship of the flesh, but there are +kinships transcendentally higher, nobler and of a purer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> nature than the +nexus of the flesh. There were things to say that had to be left unsaid. +They had not traveled that way. The language of my experience would have +been a foreign tongue to them. <i>She</i> would have understood.</p> + +<p>"Wan night be th' fire here," Jamie said, taking the pipe out of his +mouth, "she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I'm clane done, jist clane +done, an' I won't be long here.'</p> + +<p>"'Och, don't spake s' downmouth'd, Anna,' says I. 'Shure ye'll feel fine +in th' mornin'.'</p> + +<p>"'Don't palaver,' says she, an' she lukt terrible serious.</p> + +<p>"'My God, Anna,' says I, 'ye wudn't be lavin' me alone,' says I, 'I +can't thole it.'</p> + +<p>"'Yer more strong,' says she, 'an' ye'll live till he comes back—thin +we'll be t'gether.'"</p> + +<p>He stopped there. He could go no farther for several minutes.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>"I hate a maan that gowls, but—"</p> + +<p>"Go on," I said, "have a good one and Mary and I will wash the cups and +saucers."</p> + +<p>"D'ye know what he wants t' help me fur?" Mary asked, with her mouth +close to his ear.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"He wants t' dhry thim so he can kiss <i>her</i> cup whin he wipes it! Kiss +her <i>cup</i>, ye mind; and right content with that!"</p> + +<p>"I don't blame 'im," said he, "I'd kiss th' very groun' she walked on!"</p> + +<p>As we proceeded to wash the cups, Mary asked:</p> + +<p>"Diz th' ministhers in America wash dishes?"</p> + +<p>"Some of them."</p> + +<p>"What kind?"</p> + +<p>"My kind."</p> + +<p>"What do th' others do?"</p> + +<p>"The big ones lay corner-stones and the little ones lay foundations."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>"Saints alive," she said, "an' what do th' hens do?"</p> + +<p>"They clock" (hatch).</p> + +<p>"Pavin' stones?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't say pavin' stones!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, aye," she laughed loudly.</p> + +<p>"Luk here," Jamie said, "I want t' laugh too. Now what th' —— is't yer +gigglin' at?"</p> + +<p>I explained.</p> + +<p>He smiled and said:</p> + +<p>"Jazus, bhoy, that reminds me ov Anna, she cud say more funny things +than aany wan I iver know'd."</p> + +<p>"And that reminds me," I said, "that the word you have just misused +<i>she</i> always pronounced with a caress!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, I know rightly, but ye know I mane no harm, don't ye?"</p> + +<p>"I know, but you remember when <i>she</i> used that word every letter in it +was dressed in its best Sunday clothes, wasn't it?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>"Och, aye, an' I'd thravel twinty miles jist t' hear aany wan say it +like Anna!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I have traveled tens of thousands of miles and I have heard the +greatest preachers of the age, but I never heard any one pronounce it so +beautifully!"</p> + +<p>"But as I was a-sayin' bhoy, I haaven't had a rale good laugh since she +died; haave I, Mary?"</p> + +<p>"I haaven't naither," Mary said.</p> + +<p>"Aye, but ye've had double throuble, dear."</p> + +<p>"We never let trouble rob us of laughter when I was here."</p> + +<p>"Because whin ye wor here she was here too. In thim days whin throuble +came she'd tear it t' pieces an' make fun ov aych piece, begorra. Ye +might glour an' glunch, but ye'd haave t' laugh before th' finish—shure +ye wud!"</p> + +<p>The neighbors began to knock again. Some of the knocks were vocal and as +plain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> as language. Some of the more familiar gaped in the window.</p> + +<p>"Hes he hed 'is bath yit?" asked McGrath, the ragman.</p> + +<p>We opened the door and in marched the inhabitants of our vicinity for +the second "crack."</p> + +<p>This right of mine own people to come and go as they pleased suggested +to me the thought that if I wanted to have a private conversation with +my father I would have to take him to another town.</p> + +<p>The following day we went to the churchyard together—Jamie and I. Over +her grave he had dragged a rough boulder and on it in a straggling, +unsteady, amateur hand were painted her initials and below them his own. +He was unable to speak there, and maybe it was just as well. I knew +everything he wanted to say. It was written on his deeply furrowed face. +I took his arm and led him away.</p> + +<p>Our next call was at Willie Withero's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> stone-pile. There, when I +remembered the nights that I passed in my new world of starched linen, +too good to shoulder a bundle of his old hammers, I was filled with +remorse. I uncovered my head and in an undertone muttered, "God forgive +me."</p> + +<p>"Great oul bhoy was Willie," he said.</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"Och, thim wor purty nice times whin he'd come in o' nights an' him an' +Anna wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an' I'll soon be wi' +thim."</p> + +<p>I bade farewell to Mary and took him to Belfast—for a private talk. +Every day for a week we went out to the Cave hill—to a wild and lonely +spot where I had a radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. The thing +of all things that I wanted him to know was that in America I had been +engaged in the same fight with poverty that they were familiar with at +home. It was hard for him to think of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> wolf of hunger at the door of +any home beyond the sea. It was astounding to him to learn that around +me always there were thousands of ragged, starving people. He just gaped +and exclaimed:</p> + +<p>"It's quare, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>We sat on the grass on the hillside, conscious each of us that we were +saying the things one wants to say on the edge of the grave.</p> + +<p>"She speyed I'd live t' see ye," he said.</p> + +<p>"She speyed well," I answered.</p> + +<p>"Th' night she died somethin' wontherful happened t' me. I wasn't as +deef as I am now, but I was purty deef. D'ye know, that night I cud +hear th' aisiest whisper frum her lips—I cud that. She groped fur m' +han; 'Jamie,' says she, 'it's nearly over, dear.'</p> + +<p>"'God love ye,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'Aye,' says she, 'if He'll jist love me as ye've done it'll be fine.' +Knowin' what a rough maan I'd been, I cudn't thole it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>"'Th' road's been gey rocky an' we've made many mistakes.'</p> + +<p>"'Aye,' I said, 'we've barged (scolded) a lot, Anna, but we didn't mane +it.'</p> + +<p>"'No,' says she, 'our crock ov love was niver dhrained.'</p> + +<p>"I brot a candle in an' stuck it in th' sconce so 's I cud see 'er +face."</p> + +<p>"'We might haave done betther,' says she, 'but sich a wee house, so many +childther an' so little money.'</p> + +<p>"'We war i' hard up,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'We wor niver hard up in love, wor we?'</p> + +<p>"'No, Anna,' says I, 'but love dizn't boil th' kittle.'</p> + +<p>"'Wud ye rather haave a boilin' kittle than love if ye had t' choose?'</p> + +<p>"'Och, no, not at all, ye know rightly I wudn't.'</p> + +<p>"'Forby, Jamie, we've given Antrim more'n such men as Lord Massarene.'</p> + +<p>"'What's that?' says I.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>"'A maan that loves th' poorest craithers on earth an' serves thim.'</p> + +<p>"She had a gey good sleep afther that."</p> + +<p>"'Jamie,' says she whin she awoke, 'was I ravin'?'</p> + +<p>"'Deed no, Anna,' says I.</p> + +<p>"'I'm not ravin' now, am I?'</p> + +<p>"'Acushla, why do ye ask sich a question?'</p> + +<p>"'Tell 'im I didn't like "fisher ov men" as well as "th' plowman." It's +aisy t' catch thim fish, it's hard t' plow up ignorance an' +superstition—tell 'im that fur me, Jamie?'</p> + +<p>"'Aye, I'll tell 'im, dear.'</p> + +<p>"'Ye mind what I say'd t' ye on th' road t' Antrim, Jamie? That "love is +Enough"?'</p> + +<p>"'Aye.'</p> + +<p>"'I tell ye again wi' my dyin' breath.'</p> + +<p>"I leaned over an' kiss't 'er an' she smiled at me. Ah, bhoy, if ye +could haave seen that luk on 'er face, it was like a picture ov th' +Virgin, it was that.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>"'Tell th' childther there's only wan kind ov poverty, Jamie, an' that's +t' haave no love in th' heart,' says she.</p> + +<p>"'Aye, I'll tell thim, Anna,' says I."</p> + +<p>He choked up. The next thought that suggested itself for expression +failed of utterance. The deep furrows on his face grew deeper. His lips +trembled. When he could speak, he said:</p> + +<p>"My God, bhoy, we had to beg a coffin t' bury 'er in!"</p> + +<p>"If I had died at the same time," I said, "they would have had to do the +same for me!"</p> + +<p>"How quare!" he said.</p> + +<p>I persuaded him to accompany me to one of the largest churches in +Belfast. I was to preach there. That was more than he expected and the +joy of it was overpowering.</p> + +<p>I do not remember the text, nor could I give at this distance of time an +outline of the discourse: it was one of those occa<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>sions when a man +stands on the borderland of another world. I felt distinctly the +spiritual guidance of an unseen hand. I took her theme and spoke more +for her approval than for the approval of the crowd.</p> + +<p>He could not hear, but he listened with his eyes. On the street, after +the service, he became oblivious of time and place and people. He threw +his long lean arms around my neck and kissed me before a crowd. He hoped +Anna was around listening. I told him she was and he said he would like +to be "happed up" beside her, as he had nothing further to hope for in +life.</p> + +<p>In fear and trembling he crossed the Channel with me. In fear lest he +should die in Scotland and they would not bury him in Antrim churchyard +beside Anna. We visited my brothers and sisters for several days. Every +day we took long walks along the country roads. These walks were full of +questionings. Big<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> vital questions of life and death and immorality. +They were quaintly put:</p> + +<p>"There's a lot of balderdash about another world, bhoy. On yer oath now, +d'ye think there is wan?"</p> + +<p>"I do."</p> + +<p>"If there is wud He keep me frum Anna jist because I've been kinda +rough?"</p> + +<p>"I am sure He wouldn't!"</p> + +<p>"He wudn't be s' d—d niggardly, wud He?"</p> + +<p>"Never! God is love and love doesn't work that way!"</p> + +<p>At the railway station he was still pouring in his questions.</p> + +<p>"D'ye believe in prayer?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>"Well, jist ax sometimes that Anna an' me be together, will ye?"</p> + +<p>"Aye."</p> + +<p>A little group of curious bystanders stood on the platform watching the +little trembling old man clinging to me as the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> tendril of a vine clings +to the trunk of a tree.</p> + +<p>"We have just one minute, Father!"</p> + +<p>"Aye, aye, wan minute—my God, why cudn't ye stay?"</p> + +<p>"There are so many voices calling me over the sea."</p> + +<p>"Aye, that's thrue."</p> + +<p>He saw them watching him and he feebly dragged me away from the crowd. +He kissed me passionately, again and again, on the lips. The whistle +blew.</p> + +<p>"All aboard!" the guard shouted. He clutched me tightly and clung to me +with the clutch of a drowning man. I had to extricate myself and spring +on board. I caught a glimpse of him as the train moved out; despair and +a picture of death was on his face. His lips were trembling and his eyes +were full of tears.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>A few months later they lowered him to rest beside my mother. I want to +go<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> back some day and cover them with a slab of marble, on which their +names will be cut, and these words:</p> + +<p class="center"><br /> +"Love is Enough." +</p> + +<div> +<br /><br /> +</div> + +<p class="center"><span style="font-size: smaller;">THE END</span></p> +<div> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> + +<p class="notes"> +Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenization retained</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's My Lady of the Chimney Corner, by Alexander Irvine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY CORNER *** + +***** This file should be named 31765-h.htm or 31765-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/7/6/31765/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Joseph R. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: My Lady of the Chimney Corner + +Author: Alexander Irvine + +Release Date: March 25, 2010 [EBook #31765] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY CORNER *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Joseph R. Hauser and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +MY LADY OF THE +CHIMNEY CORNER + + +BY +ALEXANDER IRVINE + + + + +AUTHOR OF "FROM THE BOTTOM UP," ETC. + + +NEW YORK +THE CENTURY CO. +1914 + + + + +Copyright, 1913, by +THE CENTURY CO. +_Published, August, 1913_ + + + + +TO +LADY GREGORY +AND +THE PLAYERS OF THE ABBEY THEATRE +DUBLIN + + + + +FOREWORD + + +This book is the torn manuscript of the most beautiful life I ever knew. +I have merely pieced and patched it together, and have not even changed +or disguised the names of the little group of neighbors who lived with +us, at "the bottom of the world." A. I. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER PAGE + + I LOVE IS ENOUGH 3 + + II THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER 21 + + III REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW 38 + + IV SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY 63 + + V HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED 85 + + VI THE APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON 110 + + VII IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE 133 + +VIII THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH 153 + + IX "BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' TH' CLOUDS" 171 + + X THE EMPTY CORNER 198 + + + + +MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY-CORNER + +A STORY OF LOVE AND POVERTY IN +IRISH PEASANT LIFE + + + + +CHAPTER I + +LOVE IS ENOUGH + + +"Anna's purty, an' she's good as well as purty, but th' beauty an' +goodness that's hers is short lived, I'm thinkin'," said old Bridget +McGrady to her neighbor Mrs. Tierney, as Mrs. Gilmore passed the door, +leading her five-year-old girl, Anna, by the hand. The old women were +sitting on the doorstep as the worshipers came down the lane from early +mass on a summer morning. + +"Thrue for you, Bridget, for th' do say that th' Virgin takes all sich +childther before they're ten." + +"Musha, but Mrs. Gilmore'll take on terrible," continued Mrs. Tierney, +"but th' will of God must be done." + +Anna was dressed in a dainty pink dress. A wide blue ribbon kept her +wealth of jet black hair in order as it hung down her back and the +squeaking of her little shoes drew attention to the fact that they were +new and in the fashion. + +"It's a mortal pity she's a girl," said Bridget, "bekase she might hev +been an althar boy before she goes." + +"Aye, but if she was a bhoy shure there's no tellin' what divilmint +she'd get into; so maybe it's just as well." + +The Gilmores lived on a small farm near Crumlin in County Antrim. They +were not considered "well to do," neither were they poor. They worked +hard and by dint of economy managed to keep their children at school. +Anna was a favorite child. Her quiet demeanor and gentle disposition +drew to her many considerations denied the rest of the family. She was a +favorite in the community. By the old women she was considered "too good +to live"; she took "kindly" to the house of God. Her teacher said, "Anna +has a great head for learning." This expression, oft repeated, gave the +Gilmores an ambition to prepare Anna for teaching. Despite the schedule +arranged for her she was confirmed in the parish chapel at the age of +ten. At fifteen she had exhausted the educational facilities of the +community and set her heart on institutions of higher learning in the +larger cities. While her parents were figuring that way the boys of the +parish were figuring in a different direction. Before Anna was seventeen +there was scarcely a boy living within miles who had not at one time or +another lingered around the gate of the Gilmore garden. Mrs. Gilmore +watched Anna carefully. She warned her against the danger of an +alliance with a boy of a lower station. The girl was devoted to the +Church. She knew her Book of Devotions as few of the older people knew +it, and before she was twelve she had read the Lives of the Saints. None +of these things made her an ascetic. She could laugh heartily and had a +keen sense of humor. + +The old women revised their prophecies. They now spoke of her "takin' +th' veil." Some said she would make "a gey good schoolmisthress," for +she was fond of children. + +While waiting the completion of arrangements to continue her schooling, +she helped her mother with the household work. She spent a good deal of +her time, too, in helping the old and disabled of the village. She +carried water to them from the village well and tidied up their cottages +at least once a week. + +The village well was the point of departure in many a romance. There +the boys and girls met several times a day. Many a boy's first act of +chivalry was to take the girl's place under the hoop that kept the cans +apart and carry home the supply of water. + +Half a century after the incident that played havoc with the dreams and +visions of which she was the central figure, Anna said to me: + +"I was fillin' my cans at th' well. He was standin' there lukin' at me. + +"'Wud ye mind,' says he, 'if I helped ye?' + +"'Deed no, not at all,' says I. So he filled my cans an' then says he: +'I would give you a nice wee cow if I cud carry thim home fur ye.' + +"'It's not home I'm goin',' says I, 'but to an' oul neighbor who can't +carry it herself.' + +"'So much th' betther fur me,' says he, an' off he walked between the +cans. At Mary McKinstry's doore that afthernoon we stood till the +shadows began t' fall." + +From the accounts rendered, old Mary did not lack for water-carriers for +months after that. One evening Mary made tea for the water-carriers and +after tea she "tossed th' cups" for them. + +"Here's two roads, dear," she said to Anna, "an' wan day ye'll haave t' +choose betwixt thim. On wan road there's love an' clane teeth (poverty), +an' on t'other riches an' hell on earth." + +"What else do you see on the roads, Mary?" Anna asked. + +"Plenty ov childther on th' road t' clane teeth, an' dogs an' cats on +th' road t' good livin'." + +"What haave ye fur me, Mary?" Jamie Irvine, Anna's friend, asked. She +took his cup, gave it a shake, looked wise and said: "Begorra, I see a +big cup, me bhoy--it's a cup o' grief I'm thinkin' it is." + +"Oul Mary was jist bletherin'," he said, as they walked down the road +in the gloaming, hand in hand. + +"A cup of sorrow isn't so bad, Jamie, when there's two to drink it," +Anna said. He pressed her hand tighter and replied: + +"Aye, that's thrue, fur then it's only half a cup." + +Jamie was a shoemaker's apprentice. His parents were very poor. The +struggle for existence left time for nothing else. As the children +reached the age of eight or nine they entered the struggle. Jamie began +when he was eight. He had never spent a day at school. His family +considered him fortunate, however, that he could be an apprentice. + +The cup that old Mary saw in the tea leaves seemed something more than +"blether" when it was noised abroad that Anna and Jamie were to be +married. + +The Gilmores strenuously objected. They objected because they had +another career mapped out for Anna. Jamie was illiterate, too, and she +was well educated. He was a Protestant and she an ardent Catholic. +Illiteracy was common enough and might be overlooked, but a mixed +marriage was unthinkable. + +The Irvines, on the other hand, although very poor, could see nothing +but disaster in marriage with a Catholic, even though she was as "pure +and beautiful as the Virgin." + +"It's a shame an' a scandal," others said, "that a young fella who can't +read his own name shud marry sich a nice girl wi' sich larnin'." + +Jamie made some defense but it wasn't convincing. + +"Doesn't the Bible say maan an' wife are wan?" he asked Mrs. Gilmore in +discussing the question with her. + +"Aye." + +"Well, when Anna an' me are wan won't she haave a thrade an' won't I +haave an education?" + +"That's wan way ov lukin' at a vexed question, but you're th' only wan +that luks at it that way!" + +"There's two," Anna said. "That's how I see it." + +When Jamie became a journeyman shoemaker, the priest was asked to +perform the marriage ceremony. He refused and there was nothing left to +do but get a man who would give love as big a place as religion, and +they were married by the vicar of the parish church. + +Not in the memory of man in that community had a wedding created so +little interest in one way and so much in another. They were both +"turncoats," the people said, and they were shunned by both sides. So +they drank their first big draft of the "cup o' grief" on their +wedding-day. + +"Sufferin' will be yer portion in this world," Anna's mother told her, +"an' in th' world t' come separation from yer maan." + +Anna kissed her mother and said: + +"I've made my choice, mother, I've made it before God, and as for +Jamie's welfare in the next world, I'm sure that love like his would +turn either Limbo, Purgatory or Hell into a very nice place to live in!" + +A few days after the wedding the young couple went out to the four +cross-roads. Jamie stood his staff on end and said: + +"Are ye ready, dear?" + +"Aye, I'm ready, but don't tip it in the direction of your preference!" +He was inclined toward Dublin, she toward Belfast. They laughed. Jamie +suddenly took his hand from the staff and it fell, neither toward +Belfast nor Dublin, but toward the town of Antrim, and toward Antrim +they set out on foot. It was a distance of less than ten miles, but it +was the longest journey she ever took--and the shortest, for she had all +the world beside her, and so had Jamie. It was in June, and they had all +the time there was. There was no hurry. They were as care-free as +children and utilized their freedom in full. Between Moira and Antrim +they came to Willie Withero's stone pile. Willie was Antrim's most noted +stone-breaker in those days. He was one of the town's news centers. At +his stone-pile he got the news going and coming. He was a strange +mixture of philosophy and cynicism. He had a rough exterior and spoke in +short, curt, snappish sentences, but behind it all he had a big heart +full of kindly human feeling. + +"Anthrim's a purty good place fur pigs an' sich to live in," he told the +travelers. "Ye see, pigs is naither Fenians nor Orangemen. I get along +purty well m'self bekase I sit on both sides ov th' fence at th' same +time." + +"How do you do it, Misther Withero?" Anna asked demurely. + +"Don't call me 'Misther,'" Willie said; "only quality calls me 'Misther' +an' I don't like it--it doesn't fit an honest stone breaker." The +question was repeated and he said: "I wear a green ribbon on Pathrick's +Day an' an orange cockade on th' Twelfth ov July, an' if th' ax m' why, +I tell thim t' go t' h--l! That's Withero fur ye an' wan ov 'im is +enough fur Anthrim, that's why I niver married, an' that'll save ye the +throuble ov axin' me whither I've got a wife or no!" + +"What church d'ye attend, Willie?" Jamie asked. + +"Church is it, ye're axin' about? Luk here, me bhoy, step over th' +stile." Willie led the way over into the field. + +"Step over here, me girl." Anna followed. A few yards from the hedge +there was an ant-hill. + +"See thim ants?" + +"Aye." + +"Now if Withero thought thim ants hated aych other like th' men ov +Anthrim d'ye know what I'd do?" + +"What?" + +"I'd pour a kittle ov boilin' wather on thim an' roast th' hides off +ivery mother's son ov thim. Aye, that's what I'd do, shure as gun's +iron!" + +"That would be a sure and speedy cure," Anna said, smiling. + +"What's this world but an ant-hill?" he asked. "Jist a big ant-hill an' +we're ants begorra an' uncles, but instead ov workin' like these wee +fellas do--help aych other an' shouldther aych other's burdens, an' +build up th' town, an' forage fur fodder, begobs we cut aych other's +throats over th' color ov ribbon or th' kind ov a church we attind! Ugh, +what balderdash!" + +The stone-breaker dropped on his knees beside the ant-hill and eyed the +manoeuvering of the ants. + +"Luk here!" he said. + +They looked in the direction of his pointed finger and observed an ant +dragging a dead fly over the hill. + +"Jist watch that wee fella!" They watched. The ant had a big job, but +it pulled and pushed the big awkward carcass over the side of the hill. +A second ant came along, sized up the situation, and took a hand. "Ha, +ha!" he chortled, "that's th' ticket, now kape yez eye on him!" + +The ants dragged the fly over the top of the hill and stuffed it down a +hole. + +"Now," said Withero, "if a fella in Anthrim wanted a han' th' other +fellah wud say: 'Where d'ye hing yer hat up on Sunday?' or some other +sich fool question!" + +"He wud that." + +"Now mind ye, I'm not huffed at th' churches, aither Orange or Green, or +th' praychers aither--tho 'pon m' sowl ivery time I luk at wan o' thim I +think ov God as a first class journeyman tailor! But I get more good +switherin' over an ant-hill than whin wan o' thim wee praychers thry t' +make me feel as miserable as th' divil!" + +"There's somethin' in that," Jamie said. + +"Aye, ye kin bate a pair ov oul boots there is!" + +"What will th' ants do wi' th' fly?" Jamie asked. + +"Huh!" he grunted with an air of authority, "they'll haave rump steaks +fur tay and fly broth fur breakvist th' morra!" + +"Th' don't need praychers down there, do th', Willie?" + +"Don't need thim up here!" he said. "They're sign-boards t' point th' +way that iverybody knows as well as th' nose on his face!" + +"Good-by," Anna said, as they prepared to leave. + +"Good-by, an' God save ye both kindly," were Willie's parting words. He +adjusted the wire protectors to his eyes and the sojourners went on down +the road. + +They found a mossy bank and unpacked their dinner. + +"Quare, isn't he?" Jamie said. + +"He has more sense than any of our people." + +"That's no compliment t' Withero, Anna, but I was jist thinkin' about +our case; we've got t' decide somethin' an' we might as well decide it +here as aanywhere." + +"About religion, Jamie?" + +"Aye." + +"I've decided." + +"When?" + +"At the ant-hill." + +"Ye cudn't be Withero?" + +"No, dear, Willie sees only half th' world. There's love in it that's +bigger than color of ribbon or creed of church. We've proven that, +Jamie, haven't we?" + +"But what haave ye decided?" + +"That love is bigger than religion. That two things are sure. One is +love of God. He loves all His children and gets huffed at none. The +other is that the love we have for each other is of the same warp and +woof as His for us, and _love is enough_, Jamie." + +"Aye, love is shure enough an' enough's as good as a faste, but what +about childther if th' come, Anna?" + +"We don't cross a stile till we come to it, do we?" + +"That's right, that's right, acushla; now we're as rich as lords, aren't +we, but I'm th' richest, amn't I? I've got you an' you've only got me." + +"I've got book learning, but you've got love and a trade, what more do I +want? You've got more love than any man that ever wooed a woman--so I'm +richer, amn't I?" + +"Oh, God," Jamie said, "but isn't this th' lovely world, eh, Anna?" + +Within a mile of Antrim they saw a cottage, perched on a high bluff by +the roadside. It was reached by stone steps. They climbed the steps to +ask for a drink of water. They were kindly received. The owner was a +follower of Wesley and his conversation at the well was in sharp +contrast to the philosophy at the stone-pile. The young journeyman and +his wife were profoundly impressed with the place. The stone cottage was +vine-clad. There were beautiful trees and a garden. The June flowers +were in bloom and a cow grazed in the pasture near by. + +"Some day we'll haave a home like this," Jamie said as they descended +the steps. Anna named it "The Mount of Temptation," for it was the +nearest she had ever been to the sin of envy. A one-armed Crimean +pensioner named Steele occupied it during my youth. It could be seen +from Pogue's entry and Anna used to point it out and tell the story of +that memorable journey. In days when clouds were heavy and low and the +gaunt wolf stood at the door she would say: "Do you mind the journey to +Antrim, Jamie?" + +"Aye," he would say with a sigh, "an' we've been in love ever since, +haven't we, Anna?" + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE WOLF AND THE CARPENTER + + +For a year after their arrival in Antrim they lived in the home of the +master-shoemaker for whom Jamie worked as journeyman. It was a great +hardship, for there was no privacy and their daily walk and +conversation, in front of strangers, was of the "yea, yea" and "nay, +nay" order. In the summer time they spent their Sundays on the banks of +Lough Neagh, taking whatever food they needed and cooking it on the +sand. They continued their courting in that way. They watched the +water-fowl on the great wide marsh, they waded in the water and played +as children play. In more serious moods she read to him Moore's poems +and went over the later lessons of her school life. Even with but part +of a day in each week together they were very happy. The world was full +of sunshine for them then. There were no clouds, no regrets, no fears. +It was a period--a brief period--that for the rest of their lives they +looked back upon as a time when they really lived. I am not sure, but I +am of the impression that the chief reason she could not be persuaded to +visit the Lough in later life was because she wanted to remember it as +she had seen it in that first year of their married life. + +Their first child was two years of age when the famine came--the famine +that swept over Ireland like a plague, leaving in its wake over a +million new-made graves. They had been in their own house for over a +year. It was scantily furnished, but it was _home_. As the ravages of +the famine spread, nearly every family in the town mourned the absence +of some member. Men and women met on the street one day, were gone the +next. Jamie put his bench to one side and sought work at anything he +could get to do. Prices ran up beyond the possibilities of the poor. The +potato crop only failed. The other crops were reaped and the proceeds +sent to England as rent and interest, and the reapers having sent the +last farthing, lay down with their wives and children and died. Of the +million who died four hundred thousand were able-bodied men. The wolf +stood at every door. The carpenter alone was busy. Of course it was the +poor who died--the poor only. In her three years of married life Anna +realized in a measure that the future held little change for her or her +husband, but she saw a ray of hope for the boy in the cradle. When the +foodless days came and the child was not getting food enough to survive, +she gave vent to her feelings of despair. Jamie did not quite understand +when she spoke of the death of hope. + +"Spake what's in yer heart plainly, Anna!" he said plaintively. + +"Jamie, we must not blame each other for anything, but we must face the +fact--we live at the bottom of the world where every hope has a +headstone--a headstone that only waits for the name." + +"Aye, dear, God help us, I know, I know what ye mane." + +"Above and beyond us," she continued, "there is a world of nice +things--books, furniture, pictures--a world where people and things can +be kept clean, but it's a world we could never reach. But I had hope"-- + +She buried her face in her hands and was silent. + +"Aye, aye, acushla, I know yer hope's in the boy, but don't give up. +We'll fight it out together if th' worst comes to th' worst. The boy'll +live, shure he will!" + +He could not bear the agony on her face. It distracted him. He went out +and sought solitude on a pile of stones back of the house. There was no +solitude there, nor could he have remained long if there had been. He +returned and drawing a stool up close beside her he sat down and put an +arm tenderly over her shoulder. + +"Cheer up, wee girl," he said, "our ship's comin' in soon." + +"If we can only save him!" she said, pointing to the cradle. + +"Well, we won't cry over spilt milk, dear--not at laste until it's +spilt." + +"Ah," she exclaimed, "I had such hopes for him!" + +"Aye, so haave I, but thin again I've thought t' myself, suppose th' wee +fella did get t' be kind-a quality like, wudn't he be ashamed ov me an' +you maybe, an' shure an ingrate that's somethin' is worse than nothin'!" + +"A child born in pure love couldn't be an ingrate, Jamie; that isn't +possible, dear." + +"Ah, who knows what a chile will be, Anna?" + +The child awoke and began to cry. It was a cry for food. There was +nothing in the house; there had been nothing all that day. They looked +at each other. Jamie turned away his face. He arose and left the house. +He went aimlessly down the street wondering where he should try for +something to eat for the child. There were several old friends whom he +supposed were in the same predicament, but to whom he had not appealed. +It was getting to be an old story. A score of as good children as his +had been buried. Everybody was polite, full of sympathy, but the child +was losing his vitality, so was the mother. Something desperate must be +done and done at once. For the third time he importuned a grocer at +whose shop he had spent much money. The grocer was just putting up the +window shutters for the night. + +"If ye cud jist spare us a ha'p'orth ov milk to keep th' life in th' +chile fur th' night?" he pleaded. + +"It wudn't be a thimbleful if I had it, Jamie, but I haven't--we haave +childther ov our own, ye know, an' life is life!" + +"Aye, aye," he said, "I know, I know," and shuffled out again. Back to +the house he went. He lifted the latch gently and tiptoed in. Anna was +rocking the child to sleep. He went softly to the table and took up a +tin can and turned again toward the door. + +Anna divined his stealthy movement. She was beside him in an instant. + +"Where are you going, Jamie?" He hesitated. She forced an answer. + +"Jamie," she said in a tone new to her, "there's been nothing but truth +and love between us; I must know." + +"I'm goin' out wi' that can to get somethin' fur that chile, Anna, if I +haave t' swing fur it. That's what's in my mind an' God help me!" + +"God help us both," she said. + +He moved toward the street. She planted herself between him and the +door. + +"No, we must stand together. They'll put you in jail and then the child +and I will die anyway. Let's wait another day!" + +They sat down together in the corner. It was dark now and they had no +candle. The last handful of turf was on the fire. They watched the +sparks play and the fitful spurts of flame light up for an instant at a +time the darkened home. It was a picture of despair--the first of a long +series that ran down the years with them. They sat in silence for a long +time. Then they whispered to each other with many a break the words they +had spoken in what now seemed to them the long ago. The fire died out. +They retired, but not to sleep. They were too hungry. There was an +insatiable gnawing at their vitals that made sleep impossible. It was +like a cancer with excruciating pain added. Sheer exhaustion only, +stilled the cries of the starving child. There were no more tears in +their eyes, but anguish has by-valves more keen, poignant and subtle. + +In agony they lay in silence and counted time by the repercussion of +pain until the welcome dawn came with its new supply of hope. The scream +of a frenzied mother who had lost a child in the night was the prelude +to a tragic day. Anna dressed quickly and in a few minutes stood by the +side of the woman. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do. It was her +turn. It would be Anna's next. All over the town the specter hovered. +Every day the reaper garnered a new harvest of human sheaves. Every day +the wolf barked. Every day the carpenter came. + +When Anna returned Jamie had gone. She took her station by the child. +Jamie took the tin can and went out along the Gray-stone road for about +a mile and entered a pasture where three cows were grazing. He was weak +and nervous. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled. He had +never milked a cow. He had no idea of the difficulty involved in +catching a cow and milking her in a pasture. There was the milk and +yonder his child, who without it would not survive the day. Desperation +dominated and directed every movement. + +The cows walked away as he approached. He followed. He drove them into a +corner of the field and managed to get his hand on one. He tried to pet +her, but the jingling of the can frightened her and off they went--all +of them--on a fast trot along the side of the field. He became cautious +as he cornered them a second time. This time he succeeded in reaching an +udder. He got a tit in his hand. He lowered himself to his haunches and +proceeded to tug vigorously. His hand was waxy and stuck as if glued to +the flesh. Before there was any sign of milk the cow gave him a swift +kick that sent him flat on his back. By the time he pulled himself +together again the cows were galloping to the other end of the pasture. + +"God!" he muttered as he mopped the sweat from his face with his +sleeve, "if ye've got aany pity or kindly feelin' giv me a sup ov that +milk fur m' chile! Come on!" + +His legs trembled so that he could scarcely stand. Again he approached. +The cows eyed him with sullen concern. They were thoroughly scared now +and he couldn't get near enough to lay a hand on any of them. He stood +in despair, trembling from head to foot. He realized that what he would +do he must do quickly. + +The morning had swift wings--it was flying away. Some one would be out +for the cows ere long and his last chance would be gone. He dropped the +can and ran to the farm-house. There was a stack-yard in the rear. He +entered and took a rope from a stack. It was a long rope--too long for +his use, but he did not want to destroy its usefulness. He dragged it +through the hedge after him. This time with care and caution he got near +enough to throw the rope over the horns of a cow. Leading her to a +fence he tied her to it and began again. It came slowly. His strength +was almost gone. He went from one side to the other--now at one tit, now +at another. From his haunches he went to his knees and from that +position he stretched out his legs and sat flat on the grass. He no +sooner had a good position than the cow would change hers. She trampled +on his legs and swerved from side to side, but he held on. It was a life +and death struggle. The little milk at the bottom of the can gave him +strength and courage. As he literally pulled it out of her his strength +increased. When the can was half full he turned the cow loose and made +for the gap in the hedge. Within a yard of it he heard the loud report +of a gun and the can dropped to the ground. The ball had plowed through +both lugs of the can disconnecting the wire handle. Not much of the milk +was lost. He picked up the can and started down the road as fast as his +legs could take him. He had only gone a hundred yards when a man stepped +out into the road and leveled a gun at him. + +"Another yard an' I'll blow yer brains out!" the man said. + +"Is this yer milk?" Jamie asked. + +"Aye, an' well ye know it's m' milk!" + +Jamie put the can down on the road and stood silent. The farmer +delivered himself of a volume of profane abuse. Jamie did not reply. He +stood with his head bowed and to all appearances in a mood of penitence. + +When the man finished his threats and abuse he stooped to pick up the +can. Before his hand touched it Jamie sprang at him with the ferocity of +a panther. There was a life and death tussle for a few seconds and both +men went down on the road--Jamie on top. Sitting on the man's chest he +took a wrist in each hand and pinned him to the ground. + +"Ye think I'm a thief," he said to the man as he looked at him with eyes +that burned like live coals. "I'm not, I'm an honest maan, but I haave a +chile dying wi' hunger--now it's your life or his, by ---- an' ye'll +decide!" + +"I think yer a liar as well as a thief," the man said, "but if we can +prove what ye say I'm yer friend." + +"Will ye go with me?" + +"Aye." + +"D'ye mane it?" + +"Aye, I do!" + +"I'll carry th' gun." + +"Ye may, there's nothin' in it." + +"There's enough in th' butt t' batther a maan's brains out." + +Jamie seized the gun and the can and the man got up. + +They walked down the road in silence, each watching the other out of the +corners of his eyes. + +"D'ye believe in God?" Jamie asked abruptly. The farmer hesitated +before answering. + +"Why d'ye ask?" + +"I'd like t' see a maan in these times that believed wi' his heart +insted ov his mouth!" + +"Wud he let other people milk his cows?" asked the man, sneeringly. + +"He mightn't haave cows t' milk," Jamie said. "But he'd be kind and not +a glutton!" + +They arrived at the house. The man went in first. He stopped near the +door and Jamie instinctively and in fear shot past him. What he saw +dazed him. "Ah, God!" he exclaimed. "She's dead!" + +Anna lay on her back on the floor and the boy was asleep by the hearth +with his head in the ashes. The neighbors were alarmed and came to +assist. The farmer felt Anna's pulse. It was feebly fluttering. + +"She's not dead," he said. "Get some cold wather quickly!" They dashed +the water in her face and brought her back to consciousness. When she +looked around she said: + +"Who 's this kind man come in to help, Jamie?" + +"He's a farmer," Jamie said, "an' he's brot ye a pint ov nice fresh +milk!" The man had filled a cup with milk and put it to Anna's lips. She +refused. "He's dying," she said, pointing to the boy, who lay limp on +the lap of a neighbor. The child was drowsy and listless. They gave him +the cup of milk. He had scarcely enough strength to drink. Anna drank +what was left, which was very little. + +"God bless you!" Anna said as she held out her hand to the farmer. + +"God save you kindly," he answered as he took her hand and bowed his +head. + +"I've a wife an' wains myself," he continued, "but we're not s' bad off +on a farm." Turning to Jamie he said: "Yer a Protestant!" + +"Aye." + +"An' I'm a Fenian, but we're in t' face ov bigger things!" + +He extended his hand. Jamie clasped it, the men looked into each other's +faces and understood. + +That night in the dusk, the Fenian farmer brought a sack of potatoes and +a quart of fresh milk and the spark of life was prolonged. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW + + +Famine not only carried off a million of the living, but it claimed also +the unborn. Anna's second child was born a few months after the siege +was broken, but the child had been starved in its mother's womb and +lived only three months. There was no wake. Wakes are for older people. +There were no candles to burn, no extra sheet to put over the old +dresser, and no clock to stop at the moment of death. + +The little wasted thing lay in its undressed pine coffin on the table +and the neighbors came in and had a look. Custom said it should be kept +the allotted time and the tyrant was obeyed. A dozen of those to whom a +wake was a means of change and recreation came late and planted +themselves for the night. + +"Ye didn't haave a hard time wi' th' second, did ye, Anna?" asked Mrs. +Mulholland. + +"No," Anna said quietly. + +"Th' hard times play'd th' divil wi' it before it was born, I'll be +bound," said a second. + +A third averred that the child was "the very spit out of its father's +mouth." Ghost stories, stories of the famine, of hard luck, of hunger, +of pain and the thousand and one aspects of social and personal sorrow +had the changes rung on them. + +Anna sat in the corner. She had to listen, she had to answer when +directly addressed and the prevailing idea of politeness made her the +center of every story and the object of every moral! + +The refreshments were all distributed and diplomatically the mourners +were informed that there was nothing more; nevertheless they stayed on +and on. Nerve-racked and unstrung, Anna staggered to her feet and took +Jamie to the door. + +"I'll go mad, dear, if I have to stand it all night!" + +They dared not be discourteous. A reputation for heartlessness would +have followed Anna to the grave if she had gone to bed while the dead +child lay there. + +Withero had been at old William Farren's wake and was going home when he +saw Anna and Jamie at the door. They explained the situation. + +"Take a dandther down toward th' church," he said, "an' then come back." + +Willie entered the house in an apparently breathless condition. + +"Yer takin' it purty aisy here," he said, "whin 'Jowler' Hainey's +killin' his wife an' wreckin' th' house!" + +In about two minutes he was alone. He put a coal in his pipe and smoked +for a minute. Then he went over to the little coffin. He took his pipe +out of his mouth, laid it on the mantel-shelf and returned. The little +hands were folded. He unclasped them, took one of them in his rough +calloused palm. + +"Poore wee thing," he said in an undertone, "poore wee thing." He put +the hands as he found them. Still looking at the little baby face he +added: + +"Heigho, heigho, it's bad, purty bad, but it's worse where there isn't +even a dead wan!" + +When Anna returned she lay down on her bed, dressed as she was, and +Jamie and Withero kept the vigil--with the door barred. Next morning at +the earliest respectable hour Withero carried the little coffin under +his arm and Jamie walked beside him to the graveyard. + +During the fifteen years that followed the burial of "the famine child" +they buried three others and saved three--four living and four dead. + +I was the ninth child. Anna gave me a Greek name which means "Helper of +men." + +Shortly after my arrival in Scott's entry, they moved to Pogue's entry. +The stone cabin was thatch-covered and measured about twelve by sixteen +feet. The space comprised three apartments. One, a bedroom; over the +bedroom and beneath the thatch a little loft that served as a bedroom to +those of climbing age. The rest of it was workshop, dining-room, +sitting-room, parlor and general community news center. The old folks +slept in a bed, the rest of us slept on the floor and beneath the +thatch. Between the bedroom door and the open fireplace was the +chimney-corner. Near the door stood an old pine table and some dressers. +They stood against the wall and were filled with crockery. We never +owned a chair. There were several pine stools, a few creepies (small +stools), and a long bench that ran along the bedroom wall, from the +chimney corner to the bedroom door. The mud floor never had the luxury +of a covering, nor did a picture ever adorn the bare walls. When the +floor needed patching, Jamie went to somebody's garden, brought a +shovelful of earth, mixed it and filled the holes. The stools and +creepies were scrubbed once a week, the table once a day. I could draw +an outline of that old table now and accurately mark every dent and +crack in it. I do not know where it came from, but each of us had a +_hope_ that one day we should possess a pig. We built around the hope a +sty and placed it against the end of the cabin. The pig never turned up, +but the hope lived there throughout a generation! + +We owned a goat once. In three months it reduced the smooth kindly +feeling in Pogue's entry to the point of total eclipse. We sold it and +spent a year in winning back old friends. We had a garden. It measured +thirty-six by sixteen inches, and was just outside the front window. At +one end was a small currant bush and in the rest of the space Anna grew +an annual crop of nasturtiums. + +Once we were prosperous. That was when two older brothers worked with my +father at shoemaking. I remember them, on winter nights, sitting around +the big candlestick--one of the three always singing folk-songs as he +worked. As they worked near the window, Anna sat in her corner and by +the light of a candle in her little sconce made waxed ends for the men. +I browsed among the lasts, clipping, cutting and scratching old leather +parings and dreaming of the wonderful days beyond when I too could make +a boot and sing "Black-eyed Susan." + +Then the news came--news of a revolution. + +"They're making boots by machinery now," Anna said one day. + +"It's dotin' ye are, Anna," Jamie replied. She read the account. + +"How cud a machine make a boot, Anna?" he asked in bewilderment. + +"I don't know, dear." + +Barney McQuillan was the village authority on such things. When he told +Jamie, he looked aghast and said, "How quare!" + +Then makers became menders--shoemakers became cobblers. There was +something of magic and romance in the news that a machine could turn out +as much work as twenty-five men, but when my brothers moved away to +other parts of the world to find work, the romance was rubbed off. + +"Maybe we can get a machine?" Jamie said. + +"Aye, but shure ye'd have to get a factory to put it in!" + +"Is that so?" + +"Aye, an' we find it hard enough t' pay fur what we're in now!" + +Barney McQuillan was the master-shoe-maker in our town who was best +able to readjust himself to changed conditions. He became a +master-cobbler and doled out what he took in to men like Jamie. He kept +a dozen men at work, making a little off each, just as the owner of the +machine did in the factory. In each case the need of skill vanished and +the power of capital advanced. Jamie dumbly took what was left--cobbling +for Barney. To Anna the whole thing meant merely the death of a few more +hopes. For over twenty years she had fought a good fight, a fight in +which she played a losing part, though she was never wholly defeated. + +Her first fight was against slang and slovenly speech. She started early +in their married life to correct Jamie. He tried hard and often, but he +found it difficult to speak one language to his wife and another to his +customers. From the lips of Anna, it sounded all right, but the same +pronunciation by Jamie seemed affected and his customers gaped at him. + +Then she directed her efforts anew to the children. One after another +she corrected their grammar and pronunciation, corrected them every day +and every hour of the day that they were in her presence. Here again she +was doomed to failure. The children lived on the street and spoke its +language. It seemed a hopeless task. She never whined over it. She was +too busy cleaning, cooking, sewing and at odd times helping Jamie, but +night after night for nearly a generation she took stock of a life's +effort and each milestone on the way spelt failure. She could see no +light--not a glimmer. Not only had she failed to impress her language +upon others, but she found herself gradually succumbing to her +environment and actually lapsing into vulgar forms herself. There was a +larger and more vital conflict than the one she had lost. It was the +fight against dirt. In such small quarters, with so many children and +such activity in work she fought against great odds. Bathing facilities +were almost impossible: water had to be brought from the town well, +except what fell on the roof, and that was saved for washing clothes. +Whatever bathing there was, was done in the tub in which Jamie steeped +his leather. We children were suspicious that when Jamie bathed Anna had +a hand in it. They had a joke between them that could only be explained +on that basis. She called it "grooming the elephant." + +"Jist wait, m' boy," she would say in a spirit of kindly banter, "till +the elephant has to be groomed, and I'll bring ye down a peg or two." + +There was a difference of opinion among them as to the training of +children. + +"No chile iver thrived on saft words," he said; "a wet welt is +betther." + +"Aye, yer wet welt stings th' flesh, Jamie, but it niver gets at a +chile's mind." + +"Thrue for you, but who th' ---- kin get at a chile's mind?" + +One day I was chased into the house by a bigger boy. I had found a +farthing. He said it was his. The money was handed over and the boy left +with his tongue in his cheek. I was ordered to strip. When ready he laid +me across his knee and applied the "wet welt." + +An hour later it was discovered that a week had elapsed between the +losing and finding of the farthing. No sane person would believe that a +farthing could lie for a whole week on the streets of Antrim. + +"Well," he said, "ye need a warmin' like that ivery day, an' ye had nown +yestherday, did ye?" + +On another occasion I found a ball, one that had never been lost. A boy, +hoping to get me in front of my father, claimed the ball. My mother on +this occasion sat in judgment. + +"Where did _you_ get the ball?" she asked the boy. He couldn't remember. +She probed for the truth, but neither of us would give in. When all +efforts failed she cut the ball in half and gave each a piece! + +"Nixt time I'll tell yer Dah," the boy said when he got outside, "he +makes you squeal like a pig." + +When times were good--when work and wages got a little ahead of hunger, +which was seldom, Anna baked her own bread. Three kinds of bread she +baked. "Soda,"--common flour bread, never in the shape of a loaf, but +bread that lay flat on the griddle; "pirta oaten"--made of flour and +oatmeal; and "fadge"--potato bread. She always sung while baking and she +sang the most melancholy and plaintive airs. As she baked and sang I +stood beside her on a creepie watching the process and awaiting the +end, for at the close of each batch of bread I always had my +"duragh"--an extra piece. + +When hunger got ahead of wages the family bread was bought at Sam +Johnson's bakery. The journey to Sam's was full of temptation to me. +Hungry and with a vested interest in the loaf on my arm, I was not over +punctilious in details of the moral law. Anna pointed out the +opportunities of such a journey. It was a chance to try my mettle with +the arch tempter. It was a mental gymnasium in which moral muscle got +strength. There wasn't in all Ireland a mile of highway so well paved +with good intentions. I used to start out, well keyed up morally and +humming over and over the order of the day. When, on the home stretch, I +had made a dent in Sam's architecture, I would lay the loaf down on the +table, good side toward my mother. While I was doing that she had read +the story of the fall on my face. I could feel her penetrating gaze. + +"So he got ye, did he?" + +"Aye," I would say in a voice too low to be heard by my father. + +The order at Sam's was usually a sixpenny loaf, three ha'pence worth of +tea and sugar and half an ounce of tobacco. + +There were times when Barney had no work for my father, and on such +occasions I came home empty-handed. Then Jamie would go out to find work +as a day laborer. Periods like these were glossed over by Anna's humor +and wit. As they sat around the table, eating "stir-about" without milk, +or bread without tea, Jamie would grunt and complain. + +"Aye, faith," Anna would say, "it's purty bad, but it's worse where +there's none at all!" + +When the wolf lingered long at the door I went foraging--foraging as +forages a hungry dog and in the same places. Around the hovels of the +poor where dogs have clean teeth a boy has little chance. One day, +having exhausted the ordinary channels of relief without success, I +betook myself to the old swimming-hole on the mill race. The boys had a +custom of taking a "shiverin' bite" when they went bathing. It was on a +Sunday afternoon in July and quite a crowd sat around the hole. I +neither needed nor wanted a bath--I wanted a bite. No one offered a +share of his crust. A big boy named Healy was telling of his prowess as +a fighter. + +"I'll fight ye fur a penny!" said I. + +"Where's yer penny?" said Healy. + +"I'll get it th' morra." + +A man seeing the difficulty and willing to invest in a scrap advanced +the wager. I was utterly outclassed and beaten. Peeling my clothes off I +went into the race for a swim and to wash the blood off. When I came out +Healy had hidden my trousers. I searched for hours in vain. The man who +paid the wager gave me an extra penny and I went home holding my jacket +in front of my legs. The penny saved me from a "warming," but Anna, +feeling that some extra discipline was necessary, made me a pair of +trousers out of an old potato sack. + +"That's sackcloth, dear," she said, "an' ye can aither sit in th' ashes +in them or wear them in earning another pair! Hold fast t' yer penny!" + +In this penitential outfit I had to sell my papers. Every fiber of my +being tingled with shame and humiliation. I didn't complain of the +penance, but I swore vengeance on Healy. She worked the desire for +vengeance out of my system in her chimney-corner by reading to me often +enough, so that I memorized the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah. Miss +McGee, the postmistress, gave me sixpence for the accomplishment and +that went toward a new pair of trousers. Concerning Healy, Anna said: +"Bate 'im with a betther brain, dear!" + +Despite my fistic encounters, my dents in the family loaves, my shinny, +my marbles and the various signs of total or at least partial depravity, +Anna clung to the hope that out of this thing might finally come what +she was looking, praying and hoping for. + +An item on the credit side of my ledger was that I was born in a caul--a +thin filmy veil that covered me at birth. Of her twelve I was the only +one born in "luck." In a little purse she kept the caul, and on special +occasions she would exhibit it and enumerate the benefits and privileges +that went with it. Persons born in a caul were immune from being hung, +drawn and quartered, burned to death or lost at sea. + +It was on the basis of the caul I was rented to old Mary McDonagh. My +duty was to meet her every Monday morning. The meeting insured her luck +for the week. Mary was a huckster. She carried her shop on her arm--a +wicker basket in which she had thread, needles, ribbons and other things +which she sold to the farmers and folks away from the shopping center. +No one is lucky while bare-footed. Having no shoes I clattered down +Sandy Somerville's entry in my father's. At the first clatter, she came +out, basket on arm, and said: + +"Morra, bhoy, God's blessin' on ye!" + +"Morra, Mary, an' good luck t' ye," was my answer. + +I used to express my wonder that I couldn't turn this luck of a +dead-sure variety into a pair of shoes for myself. + +Anna said: "Yer luck, dear, isn't in what ye can get, but in what ye can +give!" + +When Antrim opened its first flower show I was a boy of all work at old +Mrs. Chaine's. The gardener was pleased with my work and gave me a +hothouse plant to put in competition. I carried it home proudly and +laid it down beside her in the chimney-corner. + +"The gerd'ner says it'll bate th' brains out on aany geranium in the +show!" I said. + +"Throth it will that, dear," she said, "but sure ye couldn't take a +prize fur it!" + +"Why?" I growled. + +"Ah, honey, shure everybody would know that ye didn't grow it--forby +they know that th' smoke in here would kill it in a few days." + +I sulked and protested. + +"That's a nice way t' throw cowld wather on th' chile," Jamie said. "Why +don't ye let 'im go on an' take his chances at the show?" + +A pained look overspread her features. It was as if he had struck her +with his fist. Her eyes filled with tears and she said huskily: + +"The whole world's a show, Jamie, an' this is the only place the wee +fella has to rehearse in." + +I sat down beside her and laid my head in her lap. She stroked it in +silence for a minute or two. I couldn't quite see, however, how I could +miss that show! She saw that after all I was determined to enter the +lists. She offered to put a card on it for me so that they would know +the name of the owner. This is what she wrote on the card: + +"This plant is lent for decorative purposes." + +That night there was an unusual atmosphere in her corner. She had a +newly tallied cap on her head and her little Sunday shawl over her +shoulders. Her candle was burning and the hearthstones had an extra coat +of whitewash. She drew me up close beside her and told me a story. + +"Once, a long, long time ago, God, feelin' tired, went to sleep an' had +a nice wee nap on His throne. His head was in His han's an' a wee white +cloud came down an' covered him up. Purty soon He wakes up an' says He: + +"'Where's Michael?' + +"'Here I am, Father!' said Michael. + +"'Michael, me boy,' says God, 'I want a chariot and a charioteer!' + +"'Right ye are!' says he. Up comes the purtiest chariot in the city of +Heaven an' finest charioteer. + +"'Me boy,' says God, 'take a million tons ov th' choicest seeds of th' +flowers of Heaven an' take a trip around th' world wi' them. Scatther +them,' says He, 'be th' roadsides an' th' wild places of th' earth where +my poor live.' + +"'Aye,' says the charioteer, 'that's jist like ye, Father. It's th' +purtiest job of m' afther-life an' I'll do it finely.' + +"'It's jist come t' Me in a dream,' says th' Father, 'that th' rich have +all the flowers down there and th' poor haave nown at all. If a million +tons isn't enough take a billion tons!'" + +At this point I got in some questions about God's language and the kind +of flowers. + +"Well, dear," she said, "He spakes Irish t' Irish people and the +charioteer was an Irishman." + +"Maybe it was a wuman!" I ventured. + +"Aye, but there's no difference up there." + +"Th' flowers," she said, "were primroses, butthercups an' daisies an' +th' flowers that be handy t' th' poor, an' from that day to this there's +been flowers a-plenty for all of us everywhere!" + +"Now you go to-morra an' gether a basketful an' we'll fix them up in th' +shape of th' Pryamid of Egypt an' maybe ye'll get a prize." + +I spent the whole of the following day, from dawn to dark, roaming over +the wild places near Antrim gathering the flowers of the poor. My +mother arranged them in a novel bouquet--a bouquet of wild flowers, the +base of it yellow primroses, the apex of pink shepherd's sundials, and +between the base and the apex one of the greatest variety of wild +flowers ever gotten together in that part of the world. + +It created a sensation and took first prize. At the close of the +exhibition Mrs. James Chaine distributed the prizes. When my name was +called I went forward slowly, blushing in my rags, and received a +twenty-four piece set of china! It gave me a fit! I took it home, put it +in her lap and danced. We held open house for a week, so that every man, +woman and child in the community could come in and "handle" it. + +Withero said we ought to save up and build a house to keep it in! + +She thought that a propitious time to explain the inscription she put on +the card. + +"Ah, thin," I said, "shure it's thrue what ye always say." + +"What's that, dear?" + +"It's nice t' be nice." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +SUNDAY IN POGUE'S ENTRY + + +Jamie and Anna kept the Sabbath. It was a habit with them and the +children got it, one after another, as they came along. When the town +clock struck twelve on Saturday night the week's work was done. The +customers were given fair warning that at the hour of midnight the bench +would be put away until Monday morning. There was nothing theological +about the observance. It was a custom, not a code. Anna looked upon it +as an over-punctilious notion. More than once she was heard to say: "The +Sabbath was made for maan, Jamie, and not maan for th' Sabbath." His +answer had brevity and point. "I don't care a damn what it was made +for, Anna, I'll quit at twelve." And he quit. + +Sometimes Anna would take an unfinished job and finish it herself. There +were things in cobbling she could do as well as Jamie. Her defense of +doing it in the early hours of the Sabbath was: "Sure God has more +important work to do than to sit up late to watch us mend the boots of +the poor; forby it's better to haave ye're boots mended an' go to church +than to sit in th' ashes on Sunday an' swallow the smoke of bad turf!" + +"Aye," Jamie would say, "it's jist wondtherful what we can do if we +haave th' right kind ov a conscience!" + +Jamie's first duty on Sunday was to clean out the thrush's cage. He was +very proud of Dicky and gave him a bath every morning and a house +cleaning on Sunday. We children loved Sunday. On that day Anna reigned. +She wore her little shawl over her shoulders and her hair was enclosed +in a newly tallied white cap. She smoked little, but on Sundays after +dinner she always had her "dhraw" with Jamie. Anna's Sunday chore was to +whitewash the hearthstones and clean the house. When the table was laid +for Sunday breakfast and the kettle hung on the chain singing and Anna +was in her glory of white linen, the children were supremely happy. In +their wildest dreams there was nothing quite as beautiful as that. +Whatever hunger, disappointment, or petty quarrel happened during the +week it was forgotten on Sunday. It was a day of supreme peace. + +Sunday breakfast was what she called a "puttiby," something light to +tide them over until dinner time. Dinner was the big meal of the week. +At every meal I sat beside my mother. If we had stir-about, I was +favored, but not enough to arouse jealousy: I scraped the pot. If it was +"tay," I got a few bits of the crust of Anna's bread. We called it +"scroof." + +About ten o'clock the preparations for the big dinner began. We had meat +once a week. At least it was the plan to have it so often. Of course +there were times when the plan didn't work, but when it did Sunday was +meat day. The word "meat" was never used. It was "kitchen" or "beef." +Both words meant the same thing, and bacon might be meant by either of +them. + +In nine cases out of ten, Sunday "kitchen" was a cow's head, a "calf's +head and pluck," a pair of cow's feet, a few sheep's "trotters" or a +quart of sheep's blood. Sometimes it was the entrails of a pig. Only +when there was no money for "kitchen" did we have blood. It was at first +fried and then made part of the broth. + +The broth-pot on Sunday was the center. The economic status of a family +could be as easily gaged by tasting their broth as by counting the +weekly income. Big money, good broth; little money, thin broth. The +slimmer the resource the fewer the ingredients. The pot was an index to +every condition and the talisman of every family. It was an opportunity +to show off. When Jamie donned a "dickey" once to attend a funeral and +came home with it in his pocket, no comment was made; but if Anna made +poor broth it was the talk of the entry for a week. + +Good broth consisted of "kitchen," barley, greens and lithing. Next to +"kitchen" barley was the most expensive ingredient. Folks in Pogue's +entry didn't always have it, but there were a number of cheap +substitutes, such as hard peas or horse beans. Amongst half a dozen +families in and around the entry there was a broth exchange. Each family +made a few extra quarts and exchanged them. They were distributed in +quart tin cans. Each can was emptied, washed, refilled and returned. Ann +O'Hare, the chimneysweep's wife, was usually first on hand. She had the +unenviable reputation of being the "dhirtiest craither" in the +community. Jamie called her "Sooty Ann." + +"There's a gey good smell from yer pot, Anna," she said; "what haave ye +in it th' day?" + +"Oh, jist a few sheep's throtters and a wheen of nettles." + +"Who gethered th' nettles?" + +Anna pointed to me. + +"Did th' sting bad, me baughal?" + +"Ded no, not aany," I said. + +"Did ye squeeze thim tight?" + +"I put m' Dah's socks on m' han's." + +"Aye, that's a good thrick." + +Anna had a mouth that looked like a torn pocket. She could pucker it +into the queerest shapes. She smacked her thin blue lips, puckered her +mouth a number of times while Anna emptied and refilled the can. + +"If this is as good as it smells," she said as she went out, "I'll jist +sup it myself and let oul Billy go chase himself!" + +Jamie was the family connoisseur in matters relating to broth. He tasted +Ann's. The family waited for the verdict. + +"Purty good barley an' lithin'," he said, "but it smells like Billy's +oul boots." + +"Shame on ye, Jamie," Anna said. + +"Well, give us your highfalutin' opinion ov it!" Anna sipped a spoonful +and remarked: "It might be worse." + +"Aye, it's worse where there's nown, but on yer oath now d'ye think +Sooty Ann washed her han's?" + +"Good clane dhirt will poison no one, Jamie." + +"Thrue, but this isn't clane dhirt, it's soot--bitther soot!" + +It was agreed to pass the O'Hare delection. When it cooled I quietly +gave it to my friend Rover--Mrs. Lorimer's dog. + +Hen Cassidy came next. Hen's mother was a widow who lived on the edge of +want. Hen and I did a little barter and exchange on the side, while Anna +emptied and refilled his can. He had scarcely gone when the verdict was +rendered: + +"Bacon an' nettles," Jamie said, "she's as hard up as we are, this +week!" + +"Poor craither," Anna said; "I wondther if she's got aanything besides +broth?" Nobody knew. Anna thought she knew a way to find out. + +"Haave ye aany marbles, dear?" she asked me. + +"Aye, a wheen." + +"Wud ye give a wheen to me?" + +"Aye, are ye goin' t' shoot awhile? If ye are I'll give ye half an' +shoot ye fur thim!" I said. + +"No, I jist want t' borra some." I handed out a handful of marbles. + +"Now don't glunch, dear, when I tell ye what I want thim fur." I +promised. + +"Whistle fur Hen," she said, "and give him that han'ful of marbles if +he'll tell ye what his mother haas fur dinner th' day." + +I whistled and Hen responded. + +"I'll bate ye two chanies, Hen, that I know what ye've got fur dinner!" + +"I'll bate ye!" said Hen, "show yer chanies!" + +"Show yours!" said I. + +Hen had none, but I volunteered to trust him. + +"Go on now, guess!" said he. + +"Pirtas an' broth!" said I. + +"Yer blinked, ye cabbage head, we've got two yards ov thripe forby!" + +I carried two quarts to as many neighbors. Mary carried three. As they +were settling down to dinner Arthur Gainer arrived with his mother's +contribution. Jamie sampled it and laughed outright. + +"An oul cow put 'er feet in it," he said. Anna took a taste. + +"She didn't keep it in long aither," was her comment. + +"D'ye iver mind seein' barley in Gainer's broth?" Jamie asked. + +"I haave no recollection." + +"If there isn't a kink in m' power of remembrance," Jamie said, "they've +had nothin' but bacon an' nettles since th' big famine." + +"What did th' haave before that?" Anna asked. + +"Bacon an' nettles," he said. + +"Did ye ever think, Jamie, how like folks are to th' broth they make?" + +"No," he said, "but there's no raisin why people should sting jist +because they've got nothin' but nettles in their broth!" + +The potatoes were emptied out of the pot on the bare table, my father +encircling it with his arms to prevent them from rolling off. A little +pile of salt was placed beside each person and each had a big bowl full +of broth. The different kinds had lost their identity in the common pot. + +In the midst of the meal came visitors. + +"Much good may it do ye!" said Billy Baxter as he walked in with his +hands in his pockets. + +"Thank ye, Billy, haave a good bowl of broth?" + +"Thank ye, thank ye," he said. "I don't mind a good bowl ov broth, Anna, +but I'd prefer a bowl--jist a bowl of good broth!" + +"Ye've had larks for breakvist surely, haaven't ye, Billy?" Anna said. + +"No, I didn't, but there's a famine of good broth these days. When I was +young we had the rale McKie!" Billy took a bowl, nevertheless, and went +to Jamie's bench to "sup" it. + +Eliza Wallace, the fish woman, came in. + +"Much good may it do ye," she said. + +"Thank ye kindly, 'Liza, sit down an' haave a bowl of broth!" It was +baled out and Eliza sat down on the floor near the window. + +McGrath, the rag man, "dhrapped in." "Much good may it do ye!" he said. + +"Thank ye kindly, Tom," Anna said, "ye'll surely have a bowl ov broth." + +"Jist wan spoonful," McGrath said. I emptied my bowl at a nod from Anna, +rinsed it out at the tub and filled it with broth. McGrath sat on the +doorstep. + +After the dinner Anna read a story from the _Weekly Budget_ and the +family and guests sat around and listened. Then came the weekly +function, over which there invariably arose an altercation amongst the +children. It was the Sunday visit of the Methodist tract +distributor--Miss Clarke. It was not an unmixed dread, for sometimes she +brought a good story and the family enjoyed it. The usual row took place +as to who should go to the door and return the tract. It was finally +decided that I should face the ordeal. My preparation was to wash my +feet, rake my hair into order and soap it down, cover up a few holes and +await the gentle knock on the doorpost. It came and I bounded to the +door, tract in hand. + +"Good afternoon," she began, "did your mother read the tract this week?" + +"Yis, mem, an' she says it's fine." + +"Do you remember the name of it?" + +"'Get yer own Cherries,'" said I. + +"_B-u-y_," came the correction in clear tones from behind the partition. + +"'_Buy_ yer own Cherries,' it is, mem." + +"That's better," the lady said. "Some people _get_ cherries, other people +_buy_ them." + +"Aye." + +I never bought any. I knew every wild-cherry tree within twenty miles of +Antrim. The lady saw an opening and went in. "Did you ever get caught?" +she asked. I hung my head. Then followed a brief lecture on private +property--brief, for it was cut short by Anna, who, without any apology +or introduction, said as she confronted the slum evangel: + +"Is God our Father?" + +"Yes, indeed," the lady answered. + +"An' we are all His childther?" + +"Assuredly." + +"Would ye starve yer brother Tom?" + +"Of course not." + +"But ye don't mind s' much th' starvation of all yer other wee brothers +an' sisters on th' streets, do ye?" + +There was a commotion behind the paper partition. The group stood in +breathless silence until the hunger question was put, then they +"dunched" each other and made faces. My father took a handful of my +hair, and gave it a good-natured but vigorous tug to prevent an +explosion. + +"Oh, Anna!" she said, "you are mistaken; I would starve nobody--and far +be it from me to accuse--" + +"Accuse," said Anna, raising her gentle voice. "Why, acushla, nobody +needs t' accuse th' poor; th' guilty need no accuser. We're convicted by +bein' poor, by bein' born poor an' dying poor, aren't we now?" + +"With the Lord there is neither rich nor poor, Anna." + +"Aye, an' that's no news to me, but with good folks like you it's +different." + +"No, indeed, I assure you I think that exactly." + +"Well, now, if it makes no diff'rence, dear, why do ye come down Pogue's +entry like a bailiff or a process-sarver?" + +"I didn't, I just hinted--" + +"Aye, ye hinted an' a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Now tell +me truly an' cross yer heart--wud ye go to Ballycraigie doore an' talk +t' wee Willie Chaine as ye talked t' my bhoy jist now?" + +"No--" + +"No, 'deed ye wudn't for th' wudn't let ye, but because we've no choice +ye come down here like a petty sessions-magistrate an' make my bhoy feel +like a thief because he goes like a crow an' picks a wild cherry or a +sloe that wud rot on the tree. D'ye know Luke thirteen an' nineteen?" + +The lady opened her Bible, but before she found the passage Anna was +reading from her old yellow backless Bible about the birds that lodged +in the branches of the trees. + +"Did they pay aany rent?" she asked as she closed the book. "Did th' +foxes have leases fur their holes?" + +"No." + +"No, indeed, an' d'ye think He cares less fur boys than birds?" + +"Oh, no." + +"Oh, no, an' ye know rightly that everything aroun' Antrim is jist a +demesne full o' pheasants an' rabbits for them quality t' shoot, an' we +git thransported if we get a male whin we're hungry!" + +The lady was tender-hearted and full of sympathy, but she hadn't +traveled along the same road as Anna and didn't know. Behind the screen +the group was jubilant, but when they saw the sympathy on the tract +woman's face they sobered and looked sad. + +"I must go," she said, "and God bless you, Anna," and Anna replied, "God +bless you kindly, dear." + +When Anna went behind the screen Jamie grabbed her and pressed her +closely to him. "Ye're a match for John Rae any day, ye are that, +woman!" + +The kettle was lowered to the burning turf and there was a round of tea. +The children and visitors sat on the floor. + +"Now that ye're in sich fine fettle, Anna," Jamie said, "jist toss th' +cups for us!" + +She took her own cup, gave it a peculiar twist and placed it mouth down +on the saucer. Then she took it up and examined it quizzically. The +leaves straggled hieroglyphically over the inside. The group got their +heads together and looked with serious faces at the cup. + +"There's a ship comin' across th' sea--an' I see a letther!" + +"It's for me, I'll bate," Jamie said. + +"No, dear, it's fur me." + +"Take it," Jamie said, "it's maybe a dispossess from oul Savage th' +landlord!" + +She took Jamie's cup. + +"There's a wee bit of a garden wi' a fence aroun' it." + +"Wud that be Savage givin' us a bit of groun' next year t' raise +pirtas?" + +"Maybe." + +"Maybe we're goin' t' flit, where there's a perch or two wi' th' house!" + +A low whistle outside attracted my attention and I stole quietly away. +It was Sonny Johnson, the baker's son, and he had a little bundle under +his arm. We boys were discussing a very serious proposition when Anna +appeared on the scene. + +"Morra, Sonny!" + +"Morra, Anna!" + +"Aany day but Sunday he may go, dear, but not th' day." + +That was all that was needed. Sonny wanted me to take him bird-nesting. +He had the price in the bundle. + +"If I give ye this _now_," he said, "will ye come some other day fur +nothin'?" + +"Aye." + +In the bundle was a "bap"--a diamond-shaped, flat, penny piece of bread. +I rejoined the cup-tossers. + +Another whistle. "That's Arthur," Anna said. "No shinny th' day, mind +ye." + +I joined Arthur and we sat on the wall of Gainer's pigsty. We hadn't +been there long when "Chisty" McDowell, the superintendent of the +Methodist Sunday School, was seen over in Scott's garden rounding up his +scholars. We were in his line of vision and he made for us. We saw him +coming and hid in the inner sanctum of the sty. The pig was in the +little outer yard. "Chisty" was a wiry little man of great zeal but +little humor. It was his minor talent that came into play on this +occasion, however. + +"Come, boys, come," he said, "I know ye're in there. We've got a +beautiful lesson to-day." We crouched in a corner, still silent. + +"Come, boys," he urged, "don't keep me waiting. The lesson is about the +Prodigal Son." + +"Say somethin', Arthur," I urged. He did. + +"T' hell wi' the Prodigal Son!" he said, whereupon the little man jumped +the low wall into the outer yard and drove the big, grunting, wallowing +sow in on top of us! Our yells could be heard a mile away. We came out +and were collared and taken off to Sunday School. + +When I returned, the cups were all tossed and the visitors had gone, but +Willie Withero had dropped in and was invited to "stap" for tea. He was +our most welcome visitor and there was but one house where he felt at +home. + +"Tay" that evening consisted of "stir-about," Sonny Johnson's unearned +bap and buttermilk. Willie made more noise "suppin'" his stir-about than +Jamie did, and I said: + +"Did ye iver hear ov th' cow that got her foot stuck in a bog, Willie?" + +"No, boy, what did she do?" + +"She got it out!" A stern look from Jamie prevented the application. + +"Tell me, Willie," Anna said, "is it thrue that ye can blink a cow so +that she can give no milk at all?" + +"It's jist a hoax, Anna, some oul bitch said it an' th' others cackle it +from doore to doore. I've naither wife nor wain, chick nor chile, I ate +th' bread ov loneliness an' keep m' own company an' jist bekase I don't +blether wi' th' gossoons th' think I'm uncanny. Isn't that it, Jamie, +eh!" + +"Aye, ye're right, Willie, it's quare what bletherin' fools there are in +this town!" + +Willie held his full spoon in front of his mouth while he replied: + +"It's you that's the dacent maan, Jamie, 'deed it is." + +"The crocks are empty, dear," Anna said to me. After "tay," to the town +well I went for the night's supply of water. When I returned the dishes +were washed and on the dresser. The floor was swept and the family were +swappin' stories with Withero. Sunday was ever the day of Broth and +Romance. Anna made the best broth and told the best stories. No Sunday +was complete without a good story. On the doorstep that night she told +one of her best. As she finished the church bell tolled the curfew. Then +the days of the month were tolled off. + +"Sammy's arm is gey shtrong th' night," Willie said. + +"Aye," Jamie said, "an' th' oul bell's got a fine ring." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +HIS ARM IS NOT SHORTENED + + +When Anna had to choose between love and religion--the religion of an +institution--she chose love. Her faith in God remained unshaken, but her +methods of approach were the forms of love rather than the symbols or +ceremonies of a sect. Twelve times in a quarter of a century she +appeared publicly in the parish church. Each time it was to lay on the +altar of religion the fruit of her love. Nine-tenths of those twelve +congregations would not have known her if they had met her on the +street. One-tenth were those who occupied the charity pews. + +Religion in our town had arrayed the inhabitants into two hostile camps. +She never had any sympathy with the fight. She was neutral. She pointed +out to the fanatics around her that the basis of religion was love and +that religion that expressed itself in faction fights must have hate at +the bottom of it, not love. She had a philosophy of religion that +_worked_. To the sects it would have been rank heresy, but the sects +didn't know she existed and those who were benefited by her quaint and +unique application of religion to life were almost as obscure as she +was. I was the first to discover her "heresy" and oppose it. She lived +to see me repent of my folly. + +In a town of two thousand people less than two hundred were familiar +with her face, and half of them knew her because at one time or another +they had been to "Jamie's" to have their shoes made or mended, or +because they lived in our immediate vicinity. Of the hundred who knew +her face, less than half of them were familiar enough to call her +"Anna." Of all the people who had lived in Antrim as long as she had, +she was the least known. + +No feast or function could budge her out of her corner. There came a +time when her family became as accustomed to her refusal as she had to +her environment and we ceased to coax or urge her. She never attended a +picnic, a soiree or a dance in Antrim. One big opportunity for social +intercourse amongst the poor is a wake--she never attended a wake. She +often took entire charge of a wake for a neighbor, but she directed the +affair from her corner. + +She had a slim sort of acquaintance with three intellectual men. They +were John Galt, William Green and John Gordon Holmes, vicars in that +order of the parish of Antrim. They visited her once a year and at +funerals--the funerals of her own dead. None of them knew her. They +hadn't time, but there were members of our own family who knew as little +of her mind as they did. + +She did not seek obscurity. It seemed to have sought and found her. One +avenue of escape after another was closed and she settled down at last +to her lot in the chimney-corner. Her hopes, beliefs and aspirations +were expressed in what she did rather than in what she said, though she +said much, much that is still treasured, long after she has passed away. + +Henry Lecky was a young fisherman on Lough Neagh. He was a great +favorite with the children of the entries. He loved to bring us a small +trout each when he returned after a long fishing trip. He died suddenly, +and Eliza, his mother, came at once for help to the chimney corner. + +"He's gone, Anna, he's gone!" she said as she dropped on the floor +beside Anna. + +"An' ye want me t' do for yer dead what ye'd do for mine, 'Liza?" + +"Aye, aye, Anna, yer God's angel to yer frien's." + +"Go an' fetch 'Liza Conlon, Jane Burrows and Marget Houston!" was Anna's +order to Jamie. + +The women came at once. The plan was outlined, the labor apportioned and +they went to work. Jamie went for the carpenter and hired William Gainer +to dig the grave. Eliza Conlon made the shroud, Jane Burrows and Anna +washed and laid out the corpse, and Mrs. Houston kept Eliza in Anna's +bed until the preliminaries for the wake were completed. + +"Ye can go now, Mrs. Houston," Anna said, "an' I'll mind 'Liza." + +"The light's gone out o' m' home an' darkness fills m' heart, Anna, an' +it's the sun that'll shine for m' no more! Ochone, ochone!" + +"'Liza dear, I've been where ye are now, too often not t' know that +aanything that aanybody says is jist like spittin' at a burnin' house t' +put it out. Yer boy's gone--we can't bring 'im back. Fate's cut yer +heart in two an' oul Docther Time an' the care of God are about the only +shure cures goin'." + +"Cudn't the ministher help a little if he was here, Anna?" + +"If ye think so I'll get him, 'Liza!" + +"He might put th' love of God in me!" + +"Puttin' th' love of God in ye isn't like stuffin' yer mouth with a +pirta, 'Liza!" + +"That's so, it is, but he might thry, Anna!" + +"Well, ye'll haave 'im." + +Mr. Green came and gave 'Liza what consolation he could. He read the +appropriate prayer, repeated the customary words. He did it all in a +tender tone and departed. + +"Ye feel fine afther that, don't ye, 'Liza?" + +"Aye, but Henry's dead an' will no come back!" + +"Did ye expect Mr. Green t' bring 'im?" + +"No." + +"What did ye expect, 'Liza?" + +"I dunno." + +"Shure ye don't. Ye didn't expect aanything an' ye got jist what ye +expected. Ah, wuman, God isn't a printed book t' be carried aroun' b' a +man in fine clothes, nor a gold cross t' be danglin' at the watch chain +ov a priest." + +"What is he, Anna, yer wiser nor me; tell a poor craither in throuble, +do!" + +"If ye'll lie very quiet, 'Liza--jist cross yer hands and listen--if ye +do, I'll thry!" + +"Aye, bless ye, I'll blirt no more; go on!" + +"Wee Henry is over there in his shroud, isn't he?" + +"Aye, God rest his soul." + +"He'll rest Henry's, 'Liza, but He'll haave the divil's own job wi' +yours if ye don't help 'im." + +"Och, aye, thin I'll be at pace." + +"As I was sayin', Henry's body is jist as it was yesterday, han's, legs, +heart an' head, aren't they?" + +"Aye, 'cept cold an' stiff." + +"What's missin' then?" + +"His blessed soul, God love it." + +"That's right. Now when the spirit laves th' body we say th' body's +dead, but it's jist a partnership gone broke, wan goes up an' wan goes +down. I've always thot that kissin' a corpse was like kissin' a cage +whin the bird's dead--_there's nothin' in it_. Now answer me this, 'Liza +Lecky: Is Henry a livin' spirit or a dead body?" + +"A livin' spirit, God prosper it." + +"Aye, an' God is th' same kind, but Henry's can be at but wan point at +once, while God's is everywhere at once. He's so big He can cover the +world an' so small He can get in be a crack in th' glass or a kayhole." + +"I've got four panes broke, Anna!" + +"Well, they're jist like four doores." + +"Feeries can come in that way too." + +"Aye, but feeries can't sew up a broken heart, acushla." + +"Where's Henry's soul, Anna?" Eliza asked, as if the said soul was a +naavy over whom Anna stood as gaffer. + +"It may be here at yer bedhead now, but yer more in need of knowin' +where God's Spirit is, 'Liza." + +Jamie entered with a cup of tea. + +"For a throubled heart," he said, "there's nothin' in this world like a +rale good cup o' tay." + +"God bless ye kindly, Jamie, I've a sore heart an' I'm as dhry as a +whistle." + +"Now Jamie, put th' cups down on th' bed," Anna said, "an' then get out, +like a good bhoy!" + +"I want a crack wi' Anna, Jamie," Eliza said. + +"Well, ye'll go farther an' fare worse--she's a buffer at that!" + +Eliza sat up in bed while she drank the tea. When she drained her cup +she handed it over to Anna. + +"Toss it, Anna, maybe there's good luck in it fur me." + +"No, dear, it's a hoax at best; jist now it wud be pure blasphemy. Ye +don't need luck, ye need at this minute th' help of God." + +"Och, aye, ye're right; jist talk t' me ov Him." + +"I was talkin' about His Spirit when Jamie came in." + +"Aye." + +"It comes in as many ways as there's need fur its comin', an' that's +quite a wheen." + +"God knows." + +"Ye'll haave t' be calm, dear, before He'd come t' ye in aany way." + +"Aye, but I'm at pace now, Anna, amn't I?" + +"Well, now, get out here an' get down on th' floor on yer bare knees +and haave a talk wi' 'im." + +Eliza obeyed implicitly. Anna knelt beside her. + +"I don't know what t' say." + +"Say afther me," and Anna told of an empty home and a sore heart. When +she paused, Eliza groaned. + +"Now tell 'im to lay 'is hand on yer tired head in token that He's wi' +ye in yer disthress!" + +Even to a dull intellect like Eliza's the suggestion was startling. + +"Wud He do it, Anna?" + +"Well, jist ask 'im an' then wait an' see!" + +In faltering tones Eliza made her request and waited. As gently as falls +an autumn leaf Anna laid her hand on Eliza's head, held it there for a +moment and removed it. + +"Oh, oh, oh, He's done it, Anna, He's done it, glory be t' God, He's +done it!" + +"Rise up, dear," Anna said, "an' tell me about it." + +"There was a nice feelin' went down through me, Anna, an' th' han' was +jist like yours!" + +"The han' was mine, but it was God's too." + +Anna wiped her spectacles and took Eliza over close to the window while +she read a text of the Bible. "Listen, dear," Anna said, "God's arm is +not shortened." + +"Did ye think that an arm could be stretched from beyont th' clouds t' +Pogue's entry?" + +"Aye." + +"No, dear, but God takes a han' where ever He can find it and jist diz +what He likes wi' it. Sometimes He takes a bishop's and lays it on a +child's head in benediction, then He takes the han' of a dochter t' +relieve pain, th' han' of a mother t' guide her chile, an' sometimes He +takes th' han' of an aul craither like me t' give a bit comfort to a +neighbor. But they're all han's touch't be His Spirit, an' His Spirit is +everywhere lukin' fur han's to use." + +Eliza looked at her open-mouthed for a moment. + +"Tell me, Anna," she said, as she put her hands on her shoulders, "was +th' han' that bro't home trouts fur th' childther God's han' too?" + +"Aye, 'deed it was." + +"Oh, glory be t' God--thin I'm at pace--isn't it gran' t' think +on--isn't it now?" + +Eliza Conlon abruptly terminated the conversation by announcing that all +was ready for the wake. + +"Ah, but it's the purty corpse he is," she said, "--luks jist like +life!" The three women went over to the Lecky home. It was a one-room +place. The big bed stood in the corner. The corpse was "laid out" with +the hands clasped. + +The moment Eliza entered she rushed to the bed and fell on her knees +beside it. She was quiet, however, and after a moment's pause she raised +her head and laying a hand on the folded hands said: "Ah, han's ov God +t' be so cold an' still!" + +Anna stood beside her until she thought she had stayed long enough, then +led her gently away. From that moment Anna directed the wake and the +funeral from her chimney-corner. + +"Here's a basket ov flowers for Henry, Anna, the childther gethered thim +th' day," Maggie McKinstry said as she laid them down on the +hearthstones beside Anna. + +"Ye've got some time, Maggie?" + +"Oh, aye." + +"Make a chain ov them an' let it go all th' way aroun' th' body, they'll +look purty that way, don't ye think so?" + +"Illigant, indeed, to be shure! 'Deed I'll do it." And it was done. + +To Eliza Conlon was given the task of providing refreshments. I say +"task," for after the carpenter was paid for the coffin and Jamie Scott +for the hearse there was only six shillings left. + +"Get whey for th' childther," Anna said, and "childther" in this catalog +ran up into the twenties. + +For the older "childther" there was something from Mrs. Lorimer's public +house--something that was kept under cover and passed around late, and +later still diluted and passed around again. Concerning this item Anna +said: "Wather it well, dear, an' save their wits; they've got little +enough now, God save us all!" + +"Anna," said Sam Johnson, "I am told you have charge of Henry's wake. Is +there anything I can do?" + +Sam was the tall, imperious precentor of the Mill Row meeting-house. He +was also the chief baker of the town and "looked up to" in matters +relating to morals as well as loaves. + +"Mister Gwynn has promised t' read a chapther, Mister Johnson. He'll +read, maybe, the fourteenth of John. If he diz, tell him t' go aisy over +th' twelth verse an' explain that th' works He did can be done in Antrim +by any poor craither who's got th' Spirit." + +Sam straightened up to his full height and in measured words said: + +"Ye know, no doubt, Anna, that Misther Gwynn is a Churchman an' I'm a +Presbyterian. He wouldn't take kindly to a hint from a Mill Row maan, I +fear, especially on a disputed text." + +"Well, dear knows if there's aanything this oul world needs more than +another it's an undisputed text. Couldn't ye find us wan, Misther +Johnson?" + +"All texts are disputed," he said, "but there are texts not in dispute." + +"I think I could name wan at laste, Mister Johnson." + +"Maybe." + +"'Deed no, not maybe at all, but _sure-be_. Jamie dear, get m' th' Bible +if ye plaze." + +While Jamie got the Bible she wiped her glasses and complained in a +gentle voice about the "mortal pity of it" that texts were pins for +Christians to stick in each other's flesh. + +"Here it is," she said, "'Th' poor ye haave always with ye.'" + +"Aye," Sam said, "an' how true it is." + +"'Deed it's true, but who did He mane by 'ye'?" + +"Th' world, I suppose." + +"Not all th' world, by a spoonful, but a wheen of thim like Sandy +Somerville, who's got a signboard in front of his back that tells he +ates too much while the rest of us haave backbones that could as aisily +be felt before as behine!" + +"So that's what you call an _undisputed_ text?" + +She looked over the rim of her spectacles at him for a moment in +silence, and then said, slowly: + +"Ochane--w-e-l-l--tell Mister Gwynn t' read what he likes, it'll mane +th' same aanyway." + +Kitty Coyle came in. Henry and she were engaged. They had known each +other since childhood. Her eyes were red with weeping. Henry's mother +led her by the arm. + +"Anna, dear," Eliza said, "she needs ye as much as me. Give 'er a bit ov +comfort." + +They went into the little bedroom and the door was shut. Jamie stood as +sentry. + +When they came out young Johnny Murdock, Henry's chum, was sitting on +Jamie's workbench. + +"I want ye t' take good care of Kitty th' night, Johnny. Keep close t' +'er and when th' moon comes out take 'er down the garden t' get fresh +air. It'll be stuffy wi' all th' people an' the corpse in Lecky's." + +"Aye," he said, "I'll do all I can." To Kitty she said, "I've asked +Johnny t' keep gey close t' ye till it's all over, Kitty. Ye'll +understand." + +"Aye," Kitty said, "Henry loved 'im more'n aany maan on th' Lough!" + +"Had tay yit?" Willie Withero asked as he blundered in on the scene. + +"No, Willie, 'deed we haaven't thought ov it!" + +"Well, t' haave yer bowels think yer throat's cut isn't sauncy!" he +said. + +The fire was low and the kettle cold. + +"Here, Johnny," Withero said, "jist run over t' Farren's for a ha'p'orth +ov turf an' we'll haave a cup o' tay fur these folks who're workin' +overtime palaverin' about th' dead! Moses alive, wan corpse is enough +fur a week or two--don't kill us all entirely!" + +Shortly after midnight Anna went over to see how things were at the +wake. They told her of the singing of the children, of the beautiful +chapther by Misther Gwynn, and the "feelin'" by Graham Shannon. The whey +was sufficient and nearly everybody had "a dhrap o' th' craither" and a +bite of fadge. + +"Ah, Anna dear," Eliza said, "shure it's yerself that knows how t' make +a moi'ty go th' longest distance over dhry throats an' empty stomachs! +'Deed it was a revival an' a faste in wan, an' th' only pity is that +poor Henry cudn't enjoy it!" + +The candles were burned low in the sconces, the flowers around the +corpse had faded, a few tongues, loosened by stimulation, were still +wagging, but the laughter had died down and the stories were all told. +There had been a hair-raising ghost story that had sent a dozen home +before the _respectable_ time of departure. The empty stools had been +carried outside and were largely occupied by lovers. + +Anna drew Eliza's head to her breast and pressing it gently to her said, +"I'm proud of ye, dear, ye've borne up bravely! Now I'm goin' t' haave +a few winks in th' corner, for there'll be much to do th' morra." + +Scarcely had the words died on her lips when Kitty Coyle gave vent to a +scream of terror that brought the mourners to the door and terrified +those outside. + +"What ails ye, in th' name of God?" Anna asked. She was too terrified to +speak at once. The mourners crowded closely together. + +"Watch!" Kitty said as she pointed with her finger toward Conlon's +pigsty. Johnny Murdock had his arm around Kitty's waist to keep her +steady and assure her of protection. They watched and waited. It was a +bright moonlight night, and save for the deep shadows of the houses and +hedges as clear as day. Tensely nerve-strung, open-mouthed and wild-eyed +stood the group for what seemed to them hours. In a few minutes a white +figure was seen emerging from the pigsty. The watchers were transfixed +in terror. Most of them clutched at each other nervously. Old Mrs. +Houston, the midwife who had told the ghost story at the wake, dropped +in a heap. Peter Hannen and Jamie Wilson carried her indoors. + +The white figure stood on the pathway leading through the gardens for a +moment and then returned to the sty. Most of the watchers fled to their +homes. Some didn't move because they had lost the power to do so. Others +just stood. + +"It's a hoax an' a joke," Anna said. "Now wan of you men go down there +an' see!" + +No one moved. Every eye was fixed on the pigsty. A long-drawn-out, +mournful cry was heard. It was all that tradition had described as the +cry of the Banshee. + +"The Banshee it is! Ah, merciful God, which ov us is t' b' tuk, I +wondther?" It was Eliza who spoke, and she continued, directing her +talk to Anna, "An' it's th' long arm ov th' Almighty it is raychin' down +t' give us a warnin', don't ye think so now, Anna?" + +"If it's wan arm of God, I know where th' other is, 'Liza!" Addressing +the terror-stricken watchers, Anna said: + +"Stand here, don't budge, wan of ye!" + +Along the sides of the houses in the deep shadow Anna walked until she +got to the end of the row; just around the corner stood the sty. In the +shadow she stood with her back to the wall and waited. The watchers were +breathless and what they saw a minute later gave them a syncope of the +heart that they never forgot. They saw the white figure emerge again and +they saw Anna stealthily approach and enter into what they thought was a +struggle with it. They gasped when they saw her a moment later bring the +white figure along with her. As she came nearer it looked limp and +pliable, for it hung over her arm. + +"It's that divil, Ben Green!" she said as she threw a white sheet at +their feet. + +"Hell roast 'im on a brandther!" said one. + +"The divil gut 'im like a herrin'!" said another. Four of the younger +men, having been shamed by their own cowardice, made a raid on the sty, +and next day when Ben came to the funeral he looked very much the worse +for wear. + +Ben was a friend of Henry's and a good deal of a practical joker. Anna +heard of what happened and she directed that he be one of the four men +to lower the coffin into the grave, as a moiety of consolation. Johnny +Murdock made strenuous objections to this. + +"Why?" Anna asked. + +"Bekase," he said, "shure th' divil nearly kilt Kitty be th' fright!" + +"But she was purty comfortable th' rest of th' time?" + +"Oh, aye." + +"Ye lifted a gey big burden from 'er heart last night, didn't ye, +Johnny?" + +"Aye; an' if ye won't let on I'll tell ye, Anna." He came close and +whispered into her ear: "Am goin' t' thry danged hard t' take th' heart +as well as th' throuble!" + +"What diz Kitty think?" + +"She's switherin'." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON + + +Anna was an epistle to Pogue's entry and my only excuse for dragging +Hughie Thornton into this narrative is that he was a commentary on Anna. +He was only once in our house, but that was an "occasion," and for many +years we dated things that happened about that time as "about," "before" +or "after" "the night Hughie stayed in the pigsty." + +We lived in the social cellar; Hughie led a precarious existence in the +_sub-cellar_. He was the beggar-man of several towns, of which Antrim +was the largest. He was a short, thick-set man with a pock-marked face, +eyes like a mouse, eyebrows that looked like well-worn scrubbing +brushes, and a beard cropped close with scissors or a knife. He wore two +coats, two pairs of trousers and several waistcoats--all at the same +time, winter and summer. His old battered hat looked like a crow's nest. +His wardrobe was so elaborately patched that practically nothing at all +of the originals remained; even then patches of his old, withered skin +could be seen at various angles. The thing that attracted my attention +more than anything else about him was his pockets. He had dozens of them +and they were always full of bread crusts, scraps of meat and cooking +utensils, for like a snail he carried his domicile on his back. His +boots looked as if a blacksmith had made them, and for whangs (laces) he +used strong wire. + +He was preeminently a citizen of the world. He had not lived in a house +in half a century. A haystack in summer and a pigsty in winter sufficed +him. He had a deep graphophone voice and when he spoke the sound was +like the creaking of a barn door on rusty hinges. When he came to town +he was to us what a circus is to boys of more highly favored +communities. There were several interpretations of Hughie. One was that +he was a "sent back." That is, he had gone to the gates of a less +cumbersome life and Peter or the porter at the other gate had sent him +back to perform some unfulfilled task. Another was that he was a +nobleman of an ancient line who was wandering over the earth in disguise +in search of the Grail. A third, and the most popular one, was that he +was just a common beggar and an unmitigated liar. The second +interpretation was made more plausible by the fact that he rather +enjoyed his reputation as a liar, for wise ones said: "He's jist lettin' +on." + +On one of his semi-annual visits to Antrim, Hughie got into a barrel of +trouble. He was charged--rumor charged him--with having blinked a +widow's cow. It was noised abroad that he had been caught in the act of +"skellyin'" at her. The story gathered in volume as it went from mouth +to mouth until it crystallized as a crime in the minds of half a dozen +of our toughest citizens--boys who hankered for excitement as a hungry +stomach hankers for food. He was finally rounded up in a field adjoining +the Mill Row meeting-house and pelted with stones. I was of the +"gallery" that watched the fun. I watched until a track of blood +streaked down Hughie's pock-marked face. Then I ran home and told Anna. + +"Ma!" I yelled breathlessly, "they're killin' Hughie Thornton!" + +Jamie threw his work down and accompanied Anna over the little garden +patches to the wall that protected the field. Through the gap they went +and found poor Hughie in bad shape. He was crying and he cried like a +brass band. His head and face had been cut in several places and his +face and clothes were red. + +They brought him home. A crowd followed and filled Pogue's entry, a +crowd that was about equally divided in sentiment against Hughie and +against the toughs. + +I borrowed a can of water from Mrs. McGrath and another from the Gainers +and Anna washed old Hughie's wounds in Jamie's tub. It was a great +operation. Hughie of course refused to divest himself of any clothing, +and as she said afterwards it was like "dhressin' th' woonds of a +haystack." + +One of my older brothers came home and cleared the entry, and we sat +down to our stir-about and buttermilk. An extra cup of good hot strong +tea was the finishing touch to the Samaritan act. Jamie had scant +sympathy with the beggar-man. He had always called him hard names in +language not lawful to utter, and even in this critical exigency was not +over tender. Anna saw a human need and tried to supply it. + +"Did ye blink th' cow?" Jamie asked as we sat around the candle after +supper. + +"Divil a blink," said Hughie. + +"What did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur?" was the next question. + +"I was fixin' m' galluses, over Crawford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked +over an' says, says he: + +"'Morra, Hughie!' + +"'Morra, bhoy!' says I. + +"'Luks like snow,' says he (it was in July). + +"'Aye,' says I, 'we're goin' t' haave more weather; th' sky's in a bad +art'" (direction). + +Anna arose, put her little Sunday shawl around her shoulders, tightened +the strings of her cap under her chin and went out. We gasped with +astonishment! What on earth could she be going out for? She never went +out at night. Everybody came to her. There was something so mysterious +in that sudden exit that we just looked at our guest without +understanding a word he said. + +Jamie opened up another line of inquiry. + +"Th' say yer a terrible liar, Hughie." + +"I am that," Hughie said without the slightest hesitation. "I'm th' +champ'yun liar ov County Anthrim." + +"How did ye get th' belt?" + +"Aisy, as aisy as tellin' th' thruth." + +"That's harder nor ye think." + +"So's lyin', Jamie!" + +"Tell us how ye won th' champ'yunship." + +"Whin I finish this dhraw." + +He took a live coal and stoked up the bowl of his old cutty-pipe. The +smacking of his lips could have been heard at the mouth of Pogue's +entry. We waited with breathless interest. When he had finished he +knocked the ashes out on the toe of his brogue and talked for nearly an +hour of the great event in which he covered himself with glory. + +It was a fierce encounter according to Hughie, the then champion being a +Ballymena man by the name of Jack Rooney. Jack and a bunch of vagabonds +sat on a stone pile near Ballyclare when Hughie hove in sight. The +beggar-man was at once challenged to divest himself of half his clothes +or enter the contest. He entered, with the result that Ballymena lost +the championship! The concluding round as Hughie recited it was as +follows: + +"I dhruv a nail throo th' moon wanst," said Jack. + +"Ye did, did ye," said Hughie, "but did ye iver hear ov the maan that +climbed up over th' clouds wid a hammer in his han' an' clinched it on +th' other side?" + +"No," said the champion. + +"I'm him!" said Hughie. + +"I'm bate!" said Jack Rooney, "an' begobs if I wor St. Peether I'd kape +ye outside th' gate till ye tuk it out agin!" + +Anna returned with a blanket rolled up under her arm. She gave Hughie +his choice between sleeping in Jamie's corner among the lasts or +occupying the pigsty. He chose the pigsty, but before he retired I +begged Anna to ask him about the Banshee. + +"Did ye ever really see a Banshee, Hughie?" + +"Is there aanythin' a champ'yun liar haasn't seen?" Jamie interrupted. + +"Aye," Hughie said, "'deed there is, he niver seen a maan who'd believe +'im even whin he was tellin' th' thruth!" + +"That's broth for your noggin', Jamie," Anna said. Encouraged by Anna, +Hughie came back with a thrust that increased Jamie's sympathy for him. + +"I'm undther yer roof an' beholdin' t' yer kindness, but I'd like t' ax +ye a civil quest'yun if I may be so bowld." + +"Aye, go on." + +"Did ye blow a farmer's brains out in th' famine fur a pint ov milk?" + +"It's a lie!" Jamie said, indignantly. + +"Well, me bhoy, there must b' quite a wheen, thrainin' fur me belt in +Anthrim!" + +"There's something in that, Hughie!" + +"Aye, somethin' Hughie Thornton didn't put in it!" + +We youngsters were irritated and impatient over what seemed to us +useless palaver about minor details. We wanted the story and wanted it +at once, for we understood that Hughie went to bed with the crows and we +stood in terror lest this huge bundle of pockets with its unearthly +voice should vanish into thin air. + +"D'ye know McShane?" he asked. + +"Aye, middlin'." + +"Ax 'im what Hughie Thornton towld 'im wan night be th' hour ov midnight +an' afther. Ax 'im, I say, an' he'll swear be th' Holy Virgin an' St. +Peether t' it!" + +"Jist tell us aanyway, Hughie," Anna urged and the beggar-man proceeded. + +"I was be th' oul Quaker graveyard be Moylena wan night whin th' shadows +fell an' bein' more tired than most I slipt in an' lay down be th' big +wall t' slape. I cros't m'self seven times an' says I--'God rest th' +sowls ov all here, an' God prosper th' sowl ov Hughie Thornton.' I wint +t' slape an' slept th' slape ov th' just till twelve be th' clock. I was +shuk out ov slape be a screech that waked th' dead! + +"Och, be th' powers, Jamie, me hair stud like th' brisels on O'Hara's +hog. I lukt and what m' eyes lukt upon froze me blood like icicles +hingin' frum th' thatch. It was a woman in a white shift, young an' +beautiful, wid hair stramin' down her back. She sat on th' wall wid her +head in her han's keenin' an' moanin': 'Ochone, ochone!' I thried to +spake but m' tongue cluv t' th' roof ov m' mouth. I thried t' move a +han' but it wudn't budge. M' legs an' feet wor as stiff and shtrait as +th' legs ov thim tongs in yer chimley. Och, but it's th' prackus I was +frum top t' toe! Dead intirely was I but fur th' eyes an' th' wit behint +thim. She ariz an' walked up an' down, back an' fort', up an' down, back +an' fort', keenin' an' cryin' an' wringin' her han's! Maan alive, didn't +she carry on terrible! Purty soon wid a yell she lept into the +graveyard, thin she lept on th' wall, thin I heerd her on th' road, +keenin'; an' iverywhere she wint wor long bars of light like sunbames +streamin' throo th' holes in a barn. Th' keenin' become waker an' waker +till it died down like the cheep ov a willy-wag-tail far off be the ind +ov th' road. + +"I got up an' ran like a red shank t' McShane's house. I dundthered at +his doore till he opened it, thin I towld him I'd seen th' Banshee! + +"'That bates Bannagher!' says he. + +"'It bates th' divil,' says I. 'But whose fur above th' night is what +I'd like t' know.' + +"'Oul Misther Chaine,' says he, 'as sure as gun's iron!'" + +The narrative stopped abruptly, stopped at McShane's door. + +"Did oul Misther Chaine die that night?" Anna asked. + +"Ax McShane!" was all the answer he gave and we were sent off to bed. + +Hughie was escorted to the pigsty with his blanket and candle. What +Jamie saw on the way to the pigsty made the perspiration stand in big +beads on his furrowed brow. Silhouetted against the sky were several +figures. Some were within a dozen yards, others were farther away. Two +sat on a low wall that divided the Adair and Mulholland gardens. They +were silent and motionless, but there was no mistake about it. He +directed Anna's attention to them and she made light of it. When they +returned to the house Jamie expressed fear for the life of the +beggar-man. Anna whispered something into his ear, for she knew that we +were wide-awake. They went into their room conversing in an undertone. + +The thing was so uncanny to me that it was three o'clock next morning +before I went to sleep. As early as six there was an unusual shuffling +and clattering of feet over the cobblestones in Pogue's entry. We knew +everybody in the entry by the sound of their footfall. The clatter was +by the feet of strangers. + +I "dunched" my brother, who lay beside me, with my elbow. + +"Go an' see if oul Hughie's livin' or dead," I said. + +"Ye cudn't kill 'im," he said. + +"How d'ye know?" + +"I heerd a quare story about 'im last night!" + +"Where?" + +"In th' barber's shop." + +"Is he a feerie?" + +"No." + +"What is he?" + +"Close yer thrap an' lie still!" + +Somebody opened the door and walked in. + +I slid into my clothes and climbed down. It was Withero. He shook Anna +and Jamie in their bed and asked in a loud voice: + +"What's all this palaver about an' oul throllop what niver earned salt +t' 'is pirtas?" + +"Go on t' yer stone pile, Willie," Anna said, as she sat up in bed; +"what ye don't know will save docther's bills." + +"If I catch m'self thinkin' aanythin' sauncy ov that aul haythen baste +I'll change m' name!" he said, as he turned and left in high dudgeon. + +When I got to the pigsty there were several early callers lounging +around. "Jowler" Hainey sat on a big stone near the slit. Mary +McConnaughy stood with her arms akimbo, within a yard of the door, and +Tommy Wilson was peeping into the sty through a knot-hole on the side. I +took my turn at the hole. Hughie had evidently been awakened early. He +was sitting arranging his pockets. Con Mulholland came down the entry +with his gun over his shoulder. He had just returned from his vigil as +night watchman at the Greens and was going the longest way around to his +home. + +He leaned his gun against the house side and lit his pipe. Then he +opened the sty door, softly, and said: + +"Morra, Hughie." + +"Morra, Con," came the answer, in calliope tones from our guest. + +"Haave ye a good stock ov tubacca?" Con asked Hughie. + +"I cud shtart a pipe shap, Con, fur be th' first strake ov dawn I found +five new pipes an' five half ounces ov tubacca inside th' doore ov th' +sty!" + +"Take this bit too. Avic, ye don't come ofen," and he gave him a small +package and took his departure. + +Eliza Conlon brought a cup of tea. Without even looking in, she pushed +the little door ajar, laid it just inside, and went away without a word. +Mulholland and Hainey seemed supremely concerned about the weather. From +all they said it was quite evident that each of them had "jist dhrapped +aroun' t' find out what Jamie thought ov th' prospects fur a fine day!" +Old Sandy Somerville came hatless and in his shirt-sleeves, his hands +deep in his pockets and his big watchchain dangling across what Anna +called the "front of his back." Sandy was some quality, too, and owned +three houses. + +"Did aany o' ye see my big orange cat?" he asked the callers. Without +waiting for an answer he opened the door of the pigsty and peeped in. + +By the time Hughie scrambled out there were a dozen men, women and boys +around the sty. As the beggar-man struggled up through his freight to +his feet the eyes of the crowd were scrutinizing him. Sandy shook hands +with him and wished him a pleasant journey. + +Hainey hoped he would live long and prosper. As he expressed the hope he +furtively stuffed into one of Hughie's pockets a small package. + +Anna came out and led Hughie into the house for breakfast. The little +crowd moved toward the door. On the doorstep she turned around and said: +"Hughie's goin' t' haave a cup an' a slice an' go. Ye can all see him in +a few minutes. Excuse me if I shut the doore, but Jamie's givin' the +thrush its mornin' bath an' it might fly out." + +She gently closed the door and we were again alone with the guest. + +"The luck ov God is m' portion here," he said, looking at Anna. + +Nothing was more evident. His pockets were taxed to their full capacity +and those who gathered around the table that morning wished that the +"luck of God" would spread a little. + +"Th' feeries must haave been t' see ye," Jamie said, eyeing his pockets. + +"Aye, gey sauncy feeries, too!" + +"Did ye see aany, Hughie?" Anna asked. + +"No, but I had a wondtherful dhrame." The announcement was a +disappointment to us. We had dreams of our own and to have right at our +fireside the one man in all the world who _saw_ things and get merely a +dream from him was, to say the least, discouraging. + +"I thocht I heer'd th' rat, tap; rat, tap, ov th' Lepracaun--th' feerie +shoemaker. + +"'Is that th' Lepracaun?' says I. 'If it is I want m' three wishes.' +'Get thim out,' says he, 'fur I'm gey busy th' night.' + +"'Soun' slape th' night an' safe journey th' morra,' says I. + +"'Get yer third out or I'm gone,' says he. + +"I scratched m' head an' swithered, but divil a third cud I think ov. +Jist as he was goin', 'Oh,' says I, 'I want a pig fur this sty!' + +"'Ye'll git him!' says he, an' off he wint." + +Here was something, after all, that gave us more excitement than a +Banshee story. We had a sty. We had hoped for years for a pig. We had +been forced often to use some of the sty for fuel, but in good times +Jamie had always replaced the boards. This was a real vision and we were +satisfied. Jamie's faith in Hughie soared high at the time, but a few +months later it fell to zero. Anna with a twinkle in her eye would +remind us of Hughie's prophecy. One day he wiped the vision off the +slate. + +"T' h--l wi' Hughie!" he said. "Some night he'll come back an' slape +there, thin we'll haave a pig in th' sty shure!" + +As he left our house that morning he was greeted in a most unusual +manner by a score of people who crowded the entry. Men and women +gathered around him. They inspected the wounds. They gave their blessing +in as many varieties as there were people present. The new attitude +toward the beggar baffled us. Generally he was considered a good deal of +a nuisance and something of a fraud, but that morning he was looked upon +as a saint--as one inspired, as one capable of bestowing benedictions on +the young and giving "luck" to the old. Out of their penury and want +they brought gifts of food, tobacco, cloth for patches and needles and +thread. He was overwhelmed and over-burdened, and as his mission of +gathering food for a few weeks was accomplished, he made for the town +head when he left the entry. + +The small crowd grew into a big one and he was the center of a throng +as he made his way north. When he reached the town well, Maggie +McKinstry had several small children in waiting and Hughie was asked to +give them a blessing. It was a new atmosphere to him, but he bungled +through it. The more unintelligible his jabbering, the more assured were +the recipients of his power to bless. One of the boys who stoned him was +brought by his father to ask forgiveness. + +"God save ye kindly," Hughie said to him. "Th' woonds ye made haave been +turned into blessin's galore!" He came in despised. He went out a saint. + +It proved to be Hughie's last visit to Antrim. His going out of life was +a mystery, and as the years went by tradition accorded him an exit not +unlike that of Moses. I was amongst those the current of whose lives +were supposed to have been changed by the touch of his hand on that last +visit. Anna alone knew the secret of his alleged sainthood. She was the +author and publisher of it. That night when she left us with Hughie she +gathered together in 'Liza Conlon's a few "hand-picked" people whose +minds were as an open book to her. She told them that the beggar-man was +of an ancient line, wandering the earth in search of the Holy Grail, but +that as he wandered he was recording in a secret book the deeds of the +poor. She knew exactly how the news would travel and where. One +superstition stoned him and another canonized him. + +"Dear," she said to me, many, many years afterwards. "A good thought +will thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if it gets th' right +start!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE + + +"It's a quare world," Jamie said one night as we sat in the glow of a +peat fire. + +"Aye, 'deed yer right, Jamie," Anna replied as she gazed into the +smokeless flames. + +He took his short black pipe out of his mouth, spat into the burning +sods and added: "I wondther if it's as quare t' everybody, Anna?" + +"Ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither +mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring." + +There had been but one job that day--a pair of McGuckin's boots. They +had been half-soled and heeled and my sister had taken them home, with +orders what to bring home for supper. + +The last handful of peat had been put on the fire. The cobbler's bench +had been put aside for the night and we gathered closely around the +hearth. + +The town clock struck eight. + +"What th' h--l's kapin' th' hussy!" Jamie said petulantly. + +"Hugh's at a Fenian meeting more 'n likely an' it's worth a black eye +for th' wife t' handle money when he's gone," Anna suggested. + +"More likely he's sleepin' off a dhrunk," he said. + +"No, Jamie, he laves that t' the craithers who give 'im a livin'." + +"Yer no judge o' human naiture, Anna. A squint out o' th' tail o' yer +eye at what McGuckin carries in front ov 'im wud tell ye betther if ye +had th' wits to obsarve." + +Over the fire hung a pot on the chain and close to the turf coals sat +the kettle singing. Nothing of that far-off life has left a more +lasting impression than the singing of the kettle. It sang a dirge that +night, but it usually sang of hope. It was ever the harbinger of the +thing that was most indispensable in that home of want--a cup of tea. +Often it was tea without milk, sometimes without sugar, but always tea. +If it came to a choice between tea and bread, we went without bread. + +Anna did not relish the reflection on her judgment and remained silent. + +There was a loud noise at the door. + +"Jazus!" Jamie exclaimed, "it's snowin'." Some one was kicking the snow +off against the door-post. The latch was lifted and in walked Felix +Boyle the bogman. + +"What th' blazes are ye in th' dark fur?" Felix asked in a deep, hoarse +voice. His old rabbit-skin cap was pulled down over his ears, his head +and shoulders were covered with snow. As he shook it off we shivered. +We were in debt to Felix for a load of turf and we suspected he had +called for the money. Anna lit the candle she was saving for +supper-time. The bogman threw his cap and overcoat over in the corner on +the lasts and sat down. + +"I'm frozen t' death!" he said as he proceeded to take off his brogues. +As he came up close to the coals, we were smitten with his foul breath +and in consequence gave him a wider berth. He had been drinking. + +"Where's th' mare?" Anna asked. + +"Gone home, th' bitch o' h--l," he said, "an' she's got m' load o' turf +wid 'er, bad cess t' 'er dhirty sowl!" + +The town clock struck nine. + +Felix removed his socks, pushed his stool aside and sat down on the mud +floor. A few minutes later he was flat on his back, fast asleep and +snoring loudly. + +The fire grew smaller. Anna husbanded the diminishing embers by keeping +them closely together with the long tongs. The wind howled and +screamed. The window rattled, the door creaked on its hinges and every +few minutes a gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the ashes into +our faces. We huddled nearer the fire. + +"Can't ye fix up that oul craither's head a bit?" Jamie asked. I brought +over the bogman's coat. Anna made a pillow of it and placed it under his +head. He turned over on his side. As he did so a handful of small change +rolled out of his pocket. + +"Think of that now," Jamie said as he gathered it up and stuffed it back +where it belonged, "an oul dhrunken turf dhriver wi' money t' waste +while we're starvin'." + +From that moment we were acutely hungry. + +This new incident rendered the condition poignant. + +"Maybe Mrs. Boyle an' th' wains are as hungry as we are," Anna +remarked. + +"Wi' a bogful o' turf at th' doore?" + +"Th' can't eat turf, Jamie!" + +"Th' can warm their shins, that's more'n we can do, in a minute or +two." + +The rapidly diminishing coals were arranged once more. They were a mere +handful now and the house was cold. + +There were two big holes in the chimney where Jamie kept old pipes, pipe +cleaners, bits of rags and scraps of tobacco. He liked to hide a scrap +or two there and in times of scarcity make himself believe he _found_ +them. His last puff of smoke had gone up the chimney hours ago. He +searched both holes without success. A bright idea struck him. He +searched for Boyle's pipe. He searched in vain. + +"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed, "what a breath; a pint ov that wud make a +mule dhrunk!" + +"Thry it, Jamie," Anna said, laughing. + +"Thry it yerself,--yer a good dale more ov a judge!" he said +snappishly. + +A wild gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the loose ashes off +the hearth. Jamie ensconced himself in his corner--a picture of despair. + +"I wondther if Billy O'Hare's in bed?" he said. + +"Ye'd need fumigatin' afther smokin' Billy's tobacco, Jamie!" + +"I'd smoke tobacco scraped out o' the breeches-pocket ov th' oul divil +in hell!" he replied. + +He arose, put on his muffler and made ready to visit the sweep. On the +way to the door another idea turned him back. He put on the bogman's +overcoat and rabbit-skin cap. Anna, divining his intention, said: + +"That's th' first sign of sense I've see in you for a month of Sundays." + +"Ye cudn't see it in a month ov Easther Sundays, aanyway," he retorted +with a superior toss of his head. + +Anna kept up a rapid fire of witty remarks. She injected humor into the +situation and laughed like a girl, and although she felt the pangs more +keenly than any of us, her laughter was genuine and natural. + +Jamie had his empty pipe in his mouth and by force of habit he picked up +in the tongs a little bit of live coal to light it. We all tittered. + +"Th' h--l!" he muttered, as he made for the door. Before he reached it +my sister walked in. McGuckin wasn't at home. His wife couldn't pay. We +saw the whole story on her face, every pang of it. Her eyes were red and +swollen. Before she got out a sentence of the tale of woe, she noticed +the old man in Boyle's clothing and burst out laughing. So hearty and +boisterous was it that we all again caught the contagion and laughed +with her. Sorrow was deep-seated. It had its roots away down at the +bottom of things, but laughter was always up near the surface and could +be tapped on the slightest provocation. It was a by-valve--a way of +escape for the overflow. There were times when sorrow was too deep for +tears. But there never was a time when we couldn't laugh! + +People in our town who expected visitors to knock provided a knocker. +The knocker was a distinct line of social demarcation. We lived below +the line. The minister and the tract distributor were the only persons +who ever knocked at our door. + +Scarcely had our laughter died away when the door opened and there +entered in the sweep of a blizzard's tail Billy O'Hare. The gust of cold +winter wind made us shiver again and we drew up closer to the dying +fire--so small now as to be seen with difficulty. + +"Be th' seven crosses ov Arbow, Jamie," he said, "I'm glad yer awake, me +bhoy, if ye hadn't I'd haave pulled ye out be th' tail ov yer shirt!" + +"I was jist within an ace ov goin' over an' pullin' ye out be th' heels +myself." + +The chimney-sweep stepped forward and, tapping Jamie on the forehead, +said: + +"Two great minds workin' on th' same thought shud projuce wondtherful +results, Jamie; lend me a chew ov tobacco!" + +"Ye've had larks for supper, Billy; yer jokin'!" Jamie said. + +"Larks be damned," Billy said, "m' tongue's stickin' t' th' roof ov me +mouth!" + +Again we laughed, while the two men stood looking at each +other--speechless. + +"Ye can do switherin' as easy sittin' as standin'," Anna said, and Billy +sat down. The bogman's story was repeated in minutest detail. The sweep +scratched his sooty head and looked wise. + +"It's gone!" Anna said quietly, and we all looked toward the fire. It +was dead. The last spark had been extinguished. We shivered. + +"We don't need so many stools aanyway," Jamie said. "I'll get a hatchet +an' we'll haave a fire in no time." + +"T' be freezin' t' death wi a bogman goin' t' waste is unchristian, t' +say th' laste," Billy ventured. + +"Every time we get to th' end of th' tether God appears!" Anna said +reassuringly, as she pinned her shawl closer around her neck. + +"There's nothin' but empty bowels and empty pipes in our house," the +sweep said, "but we've got half a dozen good turf left!" + +"Well, it's a long lane that's got no turnin'--ye might lend us thim," +Jamie suggested. + +"If ye'll excuse m' fur a minit, I'll warm this house, an' may the +Virgin choke m' in th' nixt chimley I sweep if I don't!" + +In a few minutes he returned with six black turf. The fire was rebuilt +and we basked in its warm white glow. The bogman snored on. Billy +inquired about the amount of his change. Then he became solicitous +about his comfort on the floor. Each suggestion was a furtive flank +movement on Boyle's loose change. + +Anna saw the bent of his mind and tried to divert his attention. + +"Did ye ever hear, Billy," she said, "that if we stand a dhrunk maan on +his head it sobers him?" + +"Be the powers, no." + +"They say," she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "that it empties him of +his contents." + +"Aye," sighed the sweep, "there's something in that, Anna; let's thry it +on Boyle." + +There was an element of excitement in the suggestion and we youngsters +hoped it would be carried out. Billy made a move to suit the action to +the thought, but Anna pushed him gently back. "Jamie's mouth is as +wathry as yours, Billy, but we'll take no short cuts, we'll go th' long +way around." + +That seemed a death-blow to hope. My sisters began to whimper and +sniffle. We had many devices for diverting hunger. The one always used +as a last resort was the stories of the "great famine." We were +particularly helped by one about a family half of whom died around a pot +of stir-about that had come too late. When we heard Jamie say, "Things +are purty bad, but they're not as bad as they might be," we knew a +famine story was on the way. + +"Hould yer horses there a minute!" Billy O'Hare broke in. He took the +step-ladder and before we knew what he was about he had taken a bunch of +dried rosemary from the roof-beams and was rubbing it in his hands as a +substitute for tobacco. + +After rubbing it between his hands he filled his pipe and began to puff +vigorously. + +"Wud ye luk at 'im!" Jamie exclaimed. + +"I've lived with th' mother ov invintion since I was th' size ov a +mushroom," he said between the puffs, "an begorra she's betther nor a +wife." The odor filled the house. It was like the sweet incense of a +censer. The men laughed and joked over the discovery. The sweep indulged +himself in some extravagant, self-laudatory statements, one of which +became a household word with us. + +"Jamie," he said as he removed his pipe and looked seriously at my +father, "who was that poltroon that discovered tobacco?" Anna informed +him. + +"What'll become ov 'im whin compared wid O'Hare, th' inventor of th' +rosemary delection? I ax ye, Jamie, bekase ye're an honest maan." + +"Heaven knows, Billy." + +"Aye, heaven only knows, fur I'll hand down t' m' future ancestors the +O'Hara brand ov rosemary tobacco!" + +"Wondtherful, wondtherful!" Jamie said, in mock solemnity. + +"Aye, t' think," Anna said, "that ye invinted it in our house!" + +We forgot our hunger pangs in the excitement. Jamie filled his pipe and +the two men smoked for a few minutes. Then a fly appeared in the +precious ointment. My father took his pipe out of his mouth and looked +inquisitively at Billy. + +"M' head's spinnin' 'round like a peerie!" he exclaimed. + +"Whin did ye ate aanything?" asked the sweep. + +"Yestherday." + +"Aye, well, it's th' mate ye haaven't in yer bowels that's makin' ye +feel quare." + +"What's th' matther wi th' invintor?" Anna asked. + +Billy had removed his pipe and was staring vacantly into space. + +"I'm seein' things two at a time, b' Jazus!" he answered. + +"We've got plenty of nothin' but wather, maybe ye'd like a good dhrink, +Billy?" + +Before he could reply the bogman raised himself to a half-sitting +posture, and yelled with all the power of his lungs: + +"Whoa! back, ye dhirty baste, back!" The wild yell chilled the blood in +our veins. + +He sat up, looked at the black figure of the sweep for a moment, then +made a spring at Billy, and before any one could interfere poor Billy +had been felled to the floor with a terrible smash on the jaw. Then he +jumped on him. We youngsters raised a howl that awoke the sleepers in +Pogue's entry. Jamie and Billy soon overpowered Boyle. When the +neighbors arrived they found O'Hare sitting on Boyle's neck and Jamie on +his legs. + +"Where am I?" Boyle asked. + +"In the home of friends," Anna answered. + +"Wud th' frien's donate a mouthful ov breath?" + +He was let up. The story of the night was told to him. He listened +attentively. When the story was told he thrust his hand into his pocket +and brought forth some change. + +"Hould yer han' out, ye black imp o' hell," he said to O'Hare. The sweep +obeyed, but remarked that the town clock had already struck twelve. "I +don't care a damn if it's thirteen!" he said. "That's fur bread, that's +fur tay, that's fur tobacco an' that's fur somethin' that runs down yer +throat like a rasp, _fur me_. Now don't let th' grass grow undther yer +flat feet, ye divil." + +After some minor instructions from Anna, the sweep went off on his +midnight errand. The neighbors were sent home. The kettle replaced the +pot on the chain, and we gathered full of ecstasy close to the fire. + +"Whisht!" Anna said. We listened. Above the roar of the wind and the +rattling of the casement we heard a loud noise. + +"It's Billy thunderin' at Marget Hurll's doore," Jamie said. + +O'Hare arrived with a bang! He put his bundles down on the table and +vigorously swung his arms like flails around him to thaw himself out. +Anna arranged the table and prepared the meal. Billy and Jamie went at +the tobacco. Boyle took the whiskey and said: + +"I thank my God an' the holy angels that I'm in th' house ov timperance +payple!" Then looking at Jamie, he said: + +"Here's t' ye, Jamie, an' ye, Anna, an' th' scoundthrel O'Hare, an' +here's t' th' three that niver bred, th' priest, th' pope, an' th' +mule!" + +Then at a draft he emptied the bottle and threw it behind the fire, +grunting his satisfaction. + +"Wudn't that make a corpse turn 'round in his coffin?" Billy said. + +"Keep yer eye on that loaf, Billy, or he'll be dhrinkin' our health in +it!" Jamie remarked humorously. + +Boyle stretched himself on the floor and yawned. The little table was +brought near the fire, the loaf was cut in slices and divided. It was a +scene that brought us to the edge of tears--tears of joy. Anna's face +particularly beamed. She talked as she prepared, and her talk was of +God's appearance at the end of every tether, and of the silver lining on +the edge of every cloud. She had a penchant for mottoes, but she never +used them in a siege. It was when the siege was broken she poured them +in and they found a welcome. As she spoke of God bringing relief, Boyle +got up on his haunches. + +"Anna," he said, "if aanybody brot me here th' night it was th' oul +divil in hell." + +"'Deed yer mistaken, Felix," she answered sweetly. "When God sends a +maan aanywhere he always gets there, even if he has to be taken there by +th' divil." + +When all was ready we gathered around the table. "How I wish we could +sing!" she said as she looked at us. The answer was on every face. +Hunger would not wait on ceremony. We were awed into stillness and +silence, however, when she raised her hand in benediction. We bowed our +heads. Boyle crossed himself. + +"Father," she said, "we thank Thee for sendin' our friend Felix here th' +night. Bless his wife an' wains, bless them in basket an' store an' take +good care of his oul mare. Amen!" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH + + +I sat on a fence in a potato field, whittling an alder stick into a +pea-blower one afternoon in the early autumn when I noticed at the other +end of the field the well-known figure of "the master." He was dressed +as usual in light gray and as usual rode a fine horse. I dropped off the +fence as if I had been shot. He urged the horse to a gallop. I pushed +the clumps of red hair under my cap and pressed it down tightly on my +head. Then I adjusted the string that served as a suspender. On came the +galloping horse. A few more lightning touches to what covered my +nakedness and he reined up in front of me! I straightened up like a +piece of whalebone! + +"What are you doing?" he asked in that far-off imperious voice of his. + +"Kapin' th' crows off th' pirtas, yer honor!" + +"You need a new shirt!" he said. The blood rushed to my face. I tried to +answer, but the attempt seemed to choke me. + +"You need a new shirt!" he almost yelled at me. I saw a smile playing +about the corners of his fine large eyes. It gave me courage. + +"Aye, yer honor, 'deed that's thrue." + +"Why don't you get one?" The answer left my mind and traveled like a +flash to the glottis, but that part of the machinery was out of order +and the answer hung fire. I paused, drew a long breath that strained the +string. Then matching his thin smile with a thick grin I replied: + +"Did yer honor iver work fur four shillin's a week and share it wid nine +others?" + +"No!" he said and the imprisoned smile was released. + +"Well, if ye iver do, shure ye'll be lucky to haave skin, let alone +shirt!" + +"You consider yourself lucky, then?" + +"Aye, middlin'." + +He galloped away and I lay down flat on my back, wiped the sweat from my +brow with the sleeve of my jacket, turned the hair loose and eased up +the string. + +That night at the first sound of the farm-yard bell I took to my heels +through the fields, through the yard and down the Belfast road to +Withero's stone-pile. Willie was just quitting for the day. I was almost +breathless, but I blurted out what then seemed to me the most important +happening in my life. + +Willie took his eye-protectors off and looked at me. + +"So ye had a crack wi' the masther, did ye?" + +"Aye, quite a crack." + +"He mistuk ye fur a horse!" he said. This damper on my enthusiasm drew +an instant reply. + +"'Deed no, nor an ass naither." + +Willie bundled up his hammers and prepared to go home. He took out his +flint and steel. Over the flint he laid a piece of brown paper, +chemically treated, then he struck the flint a sharp blow with the +steel, a spark was produced, the spark ignited the paper, it began to +burn in a smoldering, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into the bowl +of his pipe, and began the smoke that was to carry him over the journey +home. I shouldered some of his hammers and we trudged along the road +toward Antrim. + +"Throth, I know yer no ass, me bhoy, though Jamie's a good dale ov a +mule, but yer Ma's got wit enough fur the family. That answer ye gave +Misther Chaine was frum yer Ma. It was gey cute an'll git ye a job, I'll +bate." + +I had something else to tell him, but I dreaded his critical mind. When +we got to the railway bridge he laid his hammers on the wall while he +relit his pipe. I saw my last opportunity and seized it. + +"Say, Willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' that made ye feel fine all +over and--and--made ye pray?" + +"I niver pray," he said. "These wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air +jist like oul Hughie Thornton wi' his pockets bulgin' wi' scroof +(crusts). They're naggin at God from Aysther t' Christmas t' fill their +pockets! A good day's stone breakin's my prayer. At night I jist say, +'Thank ye, Father!' In th' mornin' I say 'Morra, Father, how's all up +aroun' th' throne this mornin'?'" + +"An' does He spake t' ye back?" + +"Ov coorse, d'ye think He's got worse manners nor me? He says, 'Hello, +Willie,' says He. 'How's it wi' ye this fine mornin'?' 'Purty fine, +Father, purty fine,' says I. But tell me, bhoy, was there a girl aroun' +whin that feelin' struck ye?" + +"Divil a girl, at all!" + +"Them feelin's sometimes comes frum a girl, ye know. I had wan wanst, +but that's a long story, heigh ho; aye, that's a long story!" + +"Did she die, Willie?" + +"Never mind her. That feelin' may haave been from God. Yer Ma hes a +quare notion that wan chile o' her'n will be inclined that way. She's +dhrawn eleven blanks, maybe she's dhrawn a prize, afther all; who +knows." + +Old McCabe, the road mender, overtook us and for the rest of the journey +I was seen but not heard. + +That night I sat by her side in the chimney-corner and recited the +events of the day. It had been full of magic, mystery and meaning to me. +The meaning was a little clearer to me after the recital. + +"Withero sometimes talks like a ha'penny book wi' no laves in it," she +said. "But most of the time he's nearer the facts than most of us. It +isn't all blether, dear." + +We sat up late, long after the others had gone to sleep. She read softly +a chapter of "Pilgrim's Progress," the chapter in which he is relieved +of his burden. I see now that woodcut of a gate and over the gate the +words: "Knock and it shall be opened unto you." She had read it before. +I was familiar with it, but in the light of that day's experience it had +a new meaning. She warned me, however, that my name was neither Pilgrim +nor Withero, and in elucidating her meaning she explained the phrase, +"The wind bloweth where it listeth." I learned to listen for the sound +thereof and I wondered from whence it came, not only the wind of the +heavens, but the spirit that moved men in so many directions. + +The last act of that memorable night was the making of a picture. It +took many years to find out its meaning, but every stroke of the brush +is as plain to me now as they were then. + +"Ye'll do somethin' for me?" + +"Aye, aanything in th' world." + +"Ye won't glunch nor ask questions?" + +"Not a question." + +"Shut yer eyes an' stan' close t' th' table." I obeyed. She put into +each hand a smooth stick with which Jamie had smoothed the soles of +shoes. + +"Jist for th' now these are the handles of a plow. Keep yer eyes shut +tight. Ye've seen a maan plowin' a field?" + +"Aye." + +"Think that ye see a long, long field. Ye're plowin' it. The other end +is so far away ye can't see it. Ye see a wee bit of the furrow, jist a +wee bit. Squeeze th' plow handles." I squeezed. + +"D'ye see th' trees yonder?" + +"Aye." + +"An' th' birds pickin' in th' furrow?" + +"Ay-e." + +She took the sticks away and gently pushed me on a stool and told me I +might open my eyes. + +"That's quare," I said. + +"Listen, dear, ye've put yer han' t' th' plow; ye must niver, niver take +it away. All through life ye'll haave thim plow handles in yer han's an' +ye'll be goin' down th' furrow. Ye'll crack a stone here and there, th' +plow'll stick often an' things'll be out of gear, but yer in th' furrow +all the time. Ye'll change horses, ye'll change clothes, ye'll change +yerself, but ye'll always be in the furrow, plowin', plowin', plowin'! +I'll go a bit of th' way, Jamie'll go a bit, yer brothers an' sisters a +bit, but we'll dhrap out wan b' wan. Ye're God's plowmaan." + +As I stood to say good-night she put her hand on my head and muttered +something that was not intended for me to hear. Then she kissed me good +night and I climbed to my pallet under the thatch. + +I was afraid to sleep, lest the "feelin'" should take wings. When I was +convinced that some of it, at least, would remain, I tried to sleep and +couldn't. The mingled ecstasy and excitement was too intense. I heard +the town clock strike the hours far into the morning. + +Before she awoke next morning I had exhausted every agency in the house +that would coordinate flesh and spirit. When I was ready I tiptoed to +her bedside and touched her on the cheek. Instantly she awoke and sat +upright. I put my hands on my hips and danced before her. It was a +noiseless dance with bare feet on the mud floor. + +Her long thin arms shot out toward me and I buried myself in them. "So +it stayed," she whispered in my ear. + +"Aye, an' there's more of it." + +She arose and dressed quickly. A live coal was scraped out of the ashes +and a turf fire built around it. My feet were winged as I flew to the +town well for water. When I returned she had several slices of toast +ready. Toast was a luxury. Of course there was always--or nearly +always--bread, and often there was butter, but toast to the very poor in +those days wasn't merely a matter of bread and butter, fire and time! It +was more often inclination that turned the balance for or against it, +and inclination always came on the back of some emotion, chance or +circumstance. Here all the elements met and the result was toast. + +I took a mouthful of her tea out of her cup; she reciprocated. We were +like children. Maybe we were. Love tipped our tongues, winged our feet, +opened our hearts and hands and permeated every thought and act. She +stood at the mouth of the entry until I disappeared at the town head. +While I was yet within sight I looked back half a dozen times and we +waved our hands. + +It was nearly a year before a dark line entered this spiritual spectrum. +It was inevitable that such a mental condition--ever in search of a +larger expression--should gravitate toward the Church. It has seemed +also that it was just as inevitable that the best thought of which the +Church has been the custodian should be crystallized into a creed. I was +promoted to the "big house." There, of course, I was overhauled and put +in touch with the fittings and furniture. As a flunkey I had my first +dose of boiled linen and I liked it. + +I was enabled now to attend church and Sunday School. Indeed, I would +have gone there, religion or no religion, for where else could I have +sported a white shirt and collar? With my boiled linen and my brain +stuffed with texts I gradually drew away from the chimney-corner and +never again did I help Willie Withero to carry his hammers. Ah, if one +could only go back over life and correct the mistakes. + +Gradually I lost the warm human feeling and substituted for it a +theology. I began to look upon my mother as one about whose salvation +there was some doubt. I urged her to attend church. Forms and ceremonies +became the all-important things and the life and the spirit were +proportionately unimportant. I became mildewed with the blight of +respectability. I became the possessor of a hard hat that I might ape +the respectables. I walked home every night from Ballycraigie with Jamie +Wallace, and Jamie was the best-dressed working man in the town. I was +treading a well-worn pathway. I was "getting on." A good slice of my new +religion consisted in excellency of service to my employers--my +"betters." Preacher, priest and peasant thought alike on these topics. +Anna was pleased to see me in a new garb, but she noticed and I noticed +that I had grown away from the corner. In the light of my new adjustment +I saw _duties_ plainer, but duty may become a hammer by which affection +may be beaten to death. + +I imagined the plow was going nicely in the furrow, for I wasn't +conscious of striking any snags or stones, but Anna said: + +"A plowman who skims th' surface of th' sod strikes no stones, dear, but +it's because he isn't plowin' _deep_!" + +I have plowed deep enough since, but too late to go back and compare +notes. + +She was pained, but tried to hide it. If she was on the point of tears +she would tell a funny story. + +"Acushla," she said to me one night after a theological discussion, +"sure ye remind me of a ducklin' hatched by a hen." + +"Why?" + +"We're at home in conthrary elements. Ye use texts t' fight with an' I +use thim to get pace of heart!" + +"Are you wiser nor Mr. Holmes, an' William Brennan an' Miss McGee?" I +asked. "Them's th' ones that think as I do--I mane I think as they do!" + +"No, 'deed I'm not as wise as aany of thim, but standin' outside a wee +bit I can see things that can't be seen inside. Forby they haave no +special pathway t' God that's shut t' me, nor yer oul father nor Willie +Withero!" + +Sometimes Jamie took a hand. Once when he thought Anna was going to cry, +in an argument, he wheeled around in his seat and delivered himself. + +"I'll tell ye, Anna, that whelp needs a good argyment wi' th' tongs! +Jist take thim an' hit 'im a skite on the jaw wi' thim an' I'll say, +'Amen.'" + +"That's no clinch to an argyment," I said, "an thruth is thruth!" + +"Aye, an' tongs is tongs! An' some o' ye young upstarts whin ye get a +dickey on an' a choke-me-tight collar think yer jist ready t' sit down +t' tay wi' God!" + +Anna explained and gave me more credit than was due me. So Jamie ended +the colloquy by the usual cap to his every climax. + +"Well, what th' ---- do I know about thim things, aanyway. Let's haave a +good cup o' tay an' say no more about it!" + +The more texts I knew the more fanatical I became. And the more of a +fanatic I was the wider grew the chasm that divided me from my mother. I +talked as if I knew "every saint in heaven and every divil in hell." + +She was more than patient with me, though my spiritual conceit must have +given her many a pang. Antrim was just beginning to get accustomed to my +new habiliments of boots, boiled linen and hat when I left to "push my +fortune" in other parts. My enthusiasm had its good qualities too, and +she was quick to recognize them, quicker than to notice its blemishes. +My last hours in the town--on the eve of my first departure--I spent +with her. "I feel about you, dear," she said, laughing, "as Micky Free +did about the soul of his father in Purgatory. He had been payin' for +masses for what seemed to him an uncommonly long time. 'How's th' oul +bhoy gettin' on?' Micky asked the priest. 'Purty well, Micky, his head +is out.' 'Begorra, thin, I know th' rist ov 'im will be out soon--I'll +pay for no more masses!' Your head is up and out from the bottom of th' +world, and I haave faith that ye'll purty soon be all out, an' some day +ye'll get the larger view, for ye'll be in a larger place an' ye'll +haave seen more of people an' more of the world." + +I have two letters of that period. One I wrote her from Jerusalem in the +year 1884. As I read the yellow, childish epistle I am stung with +remorse that it is full of the narrow sectarianism that still held me in +its grip. The other is dated Antrim, July, 1884, and is her answer to my +sectarian appeal. + +"Dear boy," she says, "Antrim has had many soldier sons in far-off +lands, but you are the first, I think, to have the privilege of visiting +the Holy Land. Jamie and I are proud of you. All the old friends have +read your letter. They can hardly believe it. Don't worry about our +souls. When we come one by one in the twilight of life, each of us, +Jamie and I, will have our sheaves. They will be little ones, but we are +little people. I want no glory here or hereafter that Jamie cannot +share. I gave God a plowman, but your father says I must chalk half of +that to his account. Hold tight the handles and plow deep. We watch the +candle and every wee spark thrills our hearts, for we know it's a letter +from you. + +"Your loving mother." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +"BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' TH' CLOUDS" + + +When the bill-boards announced that I was to deliver a lecture on +"England in the Soudan" in the only hall in the town, Antrim turned out +to satisfy its curiosity. "How doth this man know, not having learned," +the wise ones said, for when I shook the dust of its blessed streets +from my brogues seven years previously I was an illiterate. + +Anna could have told them, but none of the wise knew her, for curiously +enough to those who knew of her existence, but had never seen her, she +was known as "Jamie's wife." Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers +were there; several ministers, some quality, near quality, the +inhabitants of the entries in the "Scotch quarter" and all the newsboys +in town. The fact that I personally bribed the newsboys accounted for +their presence. I bought them out and reserved the front seats for them. +It was in the way of a class reunion with me. Billy O'Hare had gone +beyond--where there are no chimneys, and Ann where she could keep clean: +they were both dead. Many of the old familiar faces were absent, they +too had gone--some to other lands, some to another world. Jamie was +there. He sat between Willie Withero and Ben Baxter. He heard little of +what was said and understood less of what he heard. The vicar, Mr. +Holmes, presided. There was a vote of thanks, followed by the customary +seconding by public men, then "God save the Queen," and I went home to +tell Anna about it. + +Jamie took one arm and Withero clung to the other. + +"Jamie!" shouted Withero in a voice that could be heard by the crowd +that followed us, "d'ye mind th' first time I seen ye wi' Anna?" + +"Aye, 'deed I do!" + +"Ye didn't know it was in 'er, did ye, Jamie?" + +"Yer a liar, Willie; I know'd frum th' minute I clapped eyes on 'er that +she was th' finest wuman on God's futstool!" + +"Ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' doubt there is, Jamie, but jist +th' same any oul throllop can be a father, but by G-- it takes a rale +wuman t' be th' mother ov a rale maan! Put that in yer pipe an' smoke +it." + +"He seems t' think," said Jamie, appealing to me, "that only quality can +projuce fine childther!" + +"Yer spakin' ov clothes, Jamie; I'm spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind +th' doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but begorra, Anna was at th' head +ov th' class, an' that's no feerie story, naither, is it, me bhoy?" + +At the head of Pogue's entry, Bob Dougherty, Tommy Wilson, Sam +Manderson, Lucinda Gordon and a dozen others stopped for a "partin' +crack." + +The kettle was boiling on the chain. The hearth had been swept and a new +coat of whitening applied. There was a candle burning in her sconce and +the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face--a glory that was +encased in a newly tallied white cap. My sister sat on one side of the +fireplace and she on the other--in her corner. I did not wonder, I did +not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture--I +knew. They were more supremely interested than I was. They had never +heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their +last chance had passed by. There they were, in the light of a peat fire +and the tallow dip, supremely happy. + +The neighbors came in for a word with Anna. They filled the space. The +stools and creepies were all occupied. + +"Sit down, Willie," my father said. "Take a nice cushioned chair an' be +at home." Withero was leaning against the table. He saw and was equal to +the joke. + +"Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th' +groun', Jamie!" And down he sat on the mud floor. + +"It's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," Marget Hurll said, "an +Misther Armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn +out a boy like him!" + +Withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes--as a +preface to a few remarks. + +"Aye," he grunted, "I cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul Jamie whin +Armshtrong said that. Jamie cudn't hear it, so I whispered t' m'self, +'Begorra, if a wee fella turns _up_ whin Anthrim turns 'im out it's +little credit t' Anthrim I'm thinkin'!'" + +Anna laughed and Jamie, putting his hand behind his ear, asked: + +"What's that--what's that?" + +The name and remarks of the gentleman who seconded the vote of thanks +were repeated to him. + +"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed as he slapped me on the knee. "Well, well, +well, if that wudn't make a brass monkey laugh!" + +"Say," he said to me, "d'ye mind th' night ye come home covered wi' +clabber--" + +"Whisht!" I said, as I put my mouth to his ear. "I only want to mind +that he had three very beautiful daughters!" + +"Did ye iver spake t' aany o' thim?" Jamie asked. + +"Yes." + +"Whin?" + +"When I sold them papers." + +"Ha, ha, a ha'penny connection, eh?" + +"It's betther t' mind three fine things about a maan than wan mean +thing, Jamie," Anna said. + +"If both o' ye's on me I'm bate," he said. + +"Stop yer palaver an' let's haave a story ov th' war wi' th' naygars in +Egypt," Mrs. Hurll said. + +"Aye, that's right," one of the Gainer boys said. "Tell us what th' +queen give ye a medal fur!" + +They wanted a story of blood, so I smeared the tale red. When I finished +Anna said, "Now tell thim, dear, what ye tuk th' shillin' fur!" + +"You tell them, mother." + +"Ye tuk it t' fight ignorance an' not naygars, didn't ye?" + +"Yes, but that fight continues." + +"Aye, with you, but--" + +"Ah, never mind, mother, I have taken it up where you laid it down, and +long after--" that was far as I got, for Jamie exploded just then and +said: + +"Now get t' h--l home, ivery wan o' ye, an' give 's a minute wi' 'im +jist for ourselves, will ye?" + +He said it with laughter in his voice and it sounded in the ears of +those present as polite and pleasing as anything in the domain of their +amenities. + +They arose as one, all except Withero, and he couldn't, for Jamie +gripped him by a leg and held him on the floor just as he sat. + +In their good-night expressions the neighbors unconsciously revealed +what the lecture and the story meant to them. Summed up it meant, "Sure +it's jist wondtherful ye warn't shot!" + +When we were alone, alone with Withero, Mary "wet" a pot of tea and +warmed up a few farrels of fadges! and we commenced. Little was said, +but feeling ran high. It was like a midnight mass. Anna was silent, but +there were tears, and as I held her in my arms and kissed them away +Jamie was saying to Withero: + +"Ye might take 'im fur a dandther out where ye broke whin we first met +ye, Willie!" + +"Aye," Willie said, "I'm m' own gaffer, I will that." + +I slept at Jamie Wallace's that night, and next morning took the +"dandther" with Withero up the Dublin road, past "The Mount of +Temptation" to the old stone-pile that was no longer a pile, but a hole +in the side of the road. It was a sentimental journey that gave Willie a +chance to say some things I knew he wanted to say. + +"D'ye mind the pirta sack throusers Anna made ye onct?" + +"Yes, what of them?" + +"Did ye iver think ye cud git used t' aanything if ye wor forced t' +haave nothin' else fur a while?" + +"What's the point, Willie?" + +"Sit down here awhile an' I'll tell ye." + +We sat down on the bank of the roadside. He took out his pipe, steel and +flint, filled his pipe and talked as he filled. + +"Me an' Jamie wor pirta sack people, purty damned rough, too, but yer Ma +was a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she walked down this road wi' yer +Dah till this minit whin she's waitin' fur ye in the corner. Ivery +Sunday I've gone in jist t' hai a crack wi' 'er an' d' ye know, bhoy, I +got out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' week. She was i' hell on +sayin' words purcisely, but me an' Jamie wor too thick, an' begorra she +got used t' pirta sack words herself, but she was i' fine linen jist th' +same. + +"Wan day she says t' me, 'Willie,' says she, 'ye see people through +dirty specs.' 'How's that?' says I. 'I don't know,' says she, 'fur I +don't wear yer specs, but I think it's jist a poor habit ov yer mind. +Aych poor craither is made up ov some good an' much that isn't s' good, +an' ye see only what isn't s' good!' + +"Thin she towld m' somethin' which she niver towld aanyone else, 'cept +yer Dah, ov coorse. 'Willie,' says she, 'fur twenty years I've seen th' +Son ov Maan ivery day ov m' life!' + +"'How's that?' says I. + +"'I've more'n seen 'm. I've made tay fur 'im, an' broth on Sunday. I've +mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked +'is hair an' said kind words to 'im!' + +"'God Almighty!' says I, 'yer goin' mad, Anna!' She tuk her oul Bible +an' read t' me these words; I mind thim well: + +"'Whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers ye do it t' me!' + +"Well, me bhoy, I thunk an' I thunk over thim words an' wud ye believe +it--I begun t' clane m' specs. Wan day th' 'Dummy' came along t' m' +stone-pile. Ye mind 'er, don't ye?" (The Dummy was a harlot, who lived +in the woods up the Dublin road in summer, and Heaven only knows where +in winter.) + +"Th' Dummy," Willie continued, "came over t' th' pile an' acted purty +gay, but says I, 'Dummy, if there's anythin' I kin give ye I'll give it, +but there's nothin' ye kin give me!' + +"'Ye break stones fur a livin',' says she. + +"'Aye,' says I. + +"'What wud ye do if ye wor a lone wuman an' cudn't get nothin' at all t' +do?' + +"'I dunno,' says I. + +"'I don't want to argufy or palaver wi' a dacent maan,' says she, 'but +I'm terrible hungry.' + +"'Luk here,' says I, 'I've got a dozen pirtas I'm goin' t' roast fur m' +dinner. I'll roast thim down there be that gate, an' I'll lave ye six +an' a dhrink ov butthermilk. Whin ye see m' lave th' gate ye'll know yer +dinner's ready.' + +"'God save ye,' says she, 'may yer meal barrel niver run empty an' may +yer bread foriver be roughcasted wi' butther!' + +"I begun t' swither whin she left. Says I, 'Withero, is yer specs clane? +Kin ye see th' Son ov Maan in th' Dummy?' 'Begorra, I dunno,' says I t' +m'self. I scratched m' head an' swithered till I thought m' brains wud +turn t' stone. + +"Says I t' m'self at last, 'Aye, 'deed there must be th' spark there +what Anna talks about!' Jist then I heard yer mother's voice as plain as +I hear m' own now at this minute--an' what d'ye think Anna says?" + +"I don't know, Willie." + +"'So ye haave th' Son ov Maan t' dinner th' day?' 'Aye,' says I. + +"'An' givin' 'im yer lavins!' + +"It was like a piece ov stone cuttin' the ball ov m' eye. It cut deep! + +"I ran down th' road an' says I t' th' Dummy, 'I'll tie a rag on a stick +an' whin ye see m' wavin' it come an' take yer dinner an' I'll take +what's left!' + +"I didn't wait fur no answer, but went and did what I shud. + +"That summer whin she was hungry she hung an oul rag on th' thorn hedge +down be the wee plantain where she camped, and I answered be a rag on a +stick that she cud share mine and take hers first. One day I towld 'er +yer mother's story about th' Son ov Maan. It was th' only time I ever +talked wi' 'er. That winther she died in th' poorhouse and before she +died she sint me this." He pulled out of an inside pocket a piece of +paper yellow with age and so scuffed with handling that the scrawl was +scarcely legible: + + +_M Withero_ + Stone breaker + Dublin Road + Antrim + +"I seen Him in the ward last night and I'm content to go now. God save +you kindly. + THE DUMMY." + + +Withero having unburdened, we dandered down the road, through Masserene +and home. + +I proposed to Anna a little trip to Lough Neagh in a jaunting car. + +"No, dear, it's no use; I want to mind it jist as Jamie and I saw it +years an' years ago. I see it here in th' corner jist as plain as I saw +it then; forby Antrim wud never get over th' shock of seein' me in a +jauntin' car." + +"Then I'll tell you of a shorter journey. You have never seen the +Steeple. It's the most perfect of all the Round Towers in Ireland and +just one mile from this corner. Now don't deny me the joy of taking you +there. I'll guide you over the strand and away back of the poorhouse, +out at the station, and then it's just a hundred yards or so!" + +It took the combined efforts of Jamie, Withero, Mary and me to persuade +her, but she was finally persuaded, and dressed in a borrowed black +knitted cap and her wee Sunday shawl, she set out with us. + +"This is like a weddin'," Jamie said, as he tied the ribbons under her +chin. + +"Oh, it's worse, dear. It's a circus an' wake in wan, fur I'm about dead +an' he's turned clown for a while." In five minutes everybody in Pogue's +entry heard the news. They stood at the door waiting to have a look. + +Matty McGrath came in to see if there was "aanythin'" she could do. + +"Aye," Anna said, smiling, "ye can go over an' tell oul Ann Agnew where +I'm goin' so she won't worry herself t' death findin' out!" + +"She won't see ye," Jamie said. + +"She'd see a fly if it lit within a hundred yards of her!" + +We went down the Kill entry and over the rivulet we called "the strand." +There were stepping stones in the water and the passage was easy. As we +crossed she said: + +"Right here was th' first place ye ever came t' see th' sun dance on th' +water on Easter Sunday mornin'." + +We turned to the right and walked by the old burying ground of the +Unitarian meeting-house and past Mr. Smith's garden. Next to Smith's +garden was the garden of a cooper--I think his name was Farren. "Right +here," I said, "is where I commited my first crime!" + +"What was it?" she asked. + +"Stealing apples!" + +"Aye, what a townful of criminals we had then!" + +We reached the back of the poorhouse. James Gardner was the master of +it, and "goin' t' Jamie Gardner" was understood as the last march of +many of the inhabitants of Antrim, beginning with "Totther Jack Welch," +who was a sort of pauper _primus inter pares_ of the town. + +As we passed the little graveyard, we stood and looked over the fence at +the little boards, all of one size and one pattern, that marked each +grave. + +"God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "isn't it fearful not to git rid of +poverty even in death!" I saw a shudder pass over her face and I turned +mine away. + +Ten minutes later we emerged from the fields at the railway station. + +"You've never seen Mr. McKillop, the station master, have you?" I asked. + +"No." + +"Let us wait here for a minute, we may see him." + +"Oh, no, let's hurry on t' th' Steeple!" So on we hurried. + +It took a good deal of courage to enter when we got there, for the +far-famed Round Tower of Antrim is _private property_. Around it is a +stone wall enclosing the grounds of an estate. The Tower stands near the +house of the owner, and it takes temerity in the poor to enter. They +seldom do enter, as a matter of fact, for they are not particularly +interested in archeology. + +We timidly entered and walked up to the Tower. + +"So that's th' Steeple!" + +"Isn't it fine?" + +"Aye, it's wondtherful, but wudn't it be nice t' take our boots off an' +jist walk aroun' on this soft nice grass on our bare feet?" + +The lawn was closely clipped and as level as a billiard table. The trees +were dressed in their best summer clothing. Away in the distance we +caught glimpses of an abundance of flowers. The air was full of the +perfume of honeysuckle and sweet clover. Anna drank in the scenery with +almost childish delight. + +"D'ye think heaven will be as nice?" she asked. + +"Maybe." + +"If it is, we will take our boots off an' sit down, won't we?" And she +laughed like a girl. + +"If there are boots in the next world," I said, "there will be cobblers, +and you wouldn't want our old man to be a cobbler to all eternity?" + +"You're right," she said, "nor afther spending seventy-five years here +without bein' able to take my boots off an' walk on a nice lawn like +this wud I care to spend eternity without that joy!" + +"Do we miss what we've never had?" + +"Aye, 'deed we do. I miss most what I've never had!" + +"What, for instance?" + +"Oh, I'll tell ye th' night when we're alone!" + +We walked around the Tower and ventured once beneath the branches of a +big tree. + +"If we lived here, d'ye know what I'd like t' do?" + +"No." + +"Jist take our boots off an' play hide and go seek--wudn't it be fun?" + +I laughed loudly. + +"Whisht!" she said. "They'll catch us if you make a noise!" + +"You seem bent on getting your boots off!" I said laughingly. Her reply +struck me dumb. + +"Honey," she said, so softly and looking into my eyes, "do ye realize +that I have never stood on a patch of lawn in my life before?" + +Hand in hand we walked toward the gate, taking an occasional, wistful +glance back at the glory of the few, and thinking, both of us, of the +millions of tired feet that never felt the softness of a smooth green +sward. + +At eight o'clock that night the door was shut _and barred_. + +Jamie tacked several copies of the _Weekly Budget_ over the window and +we were alone. + +We talked of old times. We brought back the dead and smiled or sighed +over them. Old tales, of the winter nights of long ago, were retold with +a new interest. + +The town clock struck nine. + +We sat in silence as we used to sit, while another sexton tolled off the +days of the month after the ringing of the curfew. + +"Many's th' time ye've helter-skeltered home at th' sound of that bell!" +she said. + +"Yes, because the sound of the bell was always accompanied by a vision +of a wet welt hanging over the edge of the tub!" + +Jamie laughed and became reminiscent. + +"D'ye mind what ye said wan time whin I bate ye wi' th' stirrup?" + +"No, but I used to think a good deal more than I said." + +"Aye, but wan time I laid ye across m' knee an' give ye a good +shtrappin', then stud ye up an' says I, 'It hurts me worse than it hurts +ye, ye divil!' + +"'Aye,' says you, 'but it dizn't hurt ye in th' same place!' + +"I don't remember, but from time immemorial boys have thought and said +the same thing." + +"D'ye mind when _I_ bate ye?" Anna asked with a smile. + +"Yes, I remember you solemnly promised Jamie you would punish me and +when he went down to Barney's you took a long straw and lashed me +fearfully with it!" + +The town clock struck ten. + +Mary, who had sat silent all evening, kissed us all good night and went +to bed. + +I was at the point of departure for the New World. Jamie wanted to know +what I was going to do. I outlined an ambition, but its outworking was a +problem. It was beyond his ken. He could not take in the scope of it. +Anna could, for she had it from the day she first felt the movement of +life in me. It was unpretentious--nothing the world would call great. + +"Och, maan, but that wud be th' proud day fur Anna if ye cud do it." + +When the town clock struck eleven, Anna trembled. + +"Yer cowld, Anna," he said. "I'll put on a few more turf." + +"There's plenty on, dear; I'm not cold in my body." + +"Acushla, m' oul hide's like a buffalo's or I'd see that ye want 'im t' +yerself. I'm off t' bed!" + +We sat in silence gazing into the peat fire. Memory led me back down the +road to yesterday. She was out in the future and wandering in an unknown +continent with only hope to guide her. Yet we must get together, and +that quickly. + +"Minutes are like fine gold now," she said, "an' my tongue seems glued, +but I jist must spake." + +"We have plenty of time, mother." + +"Plenty!" she exclaimed. "Every clang of th' town clock is a knife +cuttin' th' cords--wan afther another--that bind me t' ye." + +"I want to know about your hope, your outlook, your religion," I said. + +"Th' biggest hope I've ever had was t' bear a chile that would love +everybody as yer father loved me!" + +"A sort of John-three-sixteen in miniature." + +"Aye." + +"The aim is high enough to begin with!" + +"Not too high!" + +"And your religion?" + +"All in all, it's bein' kind an' lovin' kindness. _That_ takes in God +an' maan an' Pogue's entry an' th' world." + +The town clock struck twelve. Each clang "a knife cutting a cord" and +each heavier and sharper than the last. Each one vibrating, tingling, +jarring along every nerve, sinew and muscle. A feeling of numbness crept +over me. + +"That's the end of life for me," she said slowly. There was a pause, +longer and more intense than all the others. + +"Maybe ye'll get rich an' forget." + +"Yes, I shall be rich. I shall be a millionaire--a millionaire of love, +but no one shall ever take your place, dear!" + +My overcoat served as a pillow. An old quilt made a pallet on the hard +floor. I found myself being pressed gently down from the low creepie to +the floor. I pretended to sleep. Her hot tears fell on my face. Her dear +toil-worn fingers were run gently through my hair. She was on her knees +by my side. The tender mysticism of her youth came back and expressed +itself in prayer. It was interspersed with tears and "Ave Maria!" + +When the first streak of dawn penetrated the old window we had our last +cup of tea together and later, when I held her in a long, lingering +embrace, there were no tears--we had shed them all in the silence of +the last vigil. When I was ready to go, she stood with her arm on the +old yellow mantel-shelf. She was rigid and pale as death, but around her +eyes and her mouth there played a smile. There was a look ineffable of +maternal love. + +"We shall meet again, mother," I said. + +"Aye, dearie, I know rightly we'll meet, but ochanee, it'll be out there +beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds." + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE EMPTY CORNER + + +When I walked into Pogue's entry about fifteen years later, it seemed +like walking into another world--I was a foreigner. + +"How quare ye spake!" Jamie said, and Mary added demurely: + +"Is it quality ye are that ye spake like it?" + +"No, faith, not at all," I said, "but it's the quality of America that +makes me!" + +"Think of that, now," she exclaimed. + +The neighbors came, new neighbors--a new generation, to most of whom I +was a tradition. Other boys and girls had left Antrim for America, +scores of them in the course of the years. There was a popular +supposition that we all knew each other. + +"Ye see th' Wilson bhoys ivery day, I'll bate," Mrs. Hainey said. + +"No, I have never seen any of them." + +"Saints alive, how's that?" + +"Because we live three thousand miles apart." + +"Aye, well, shure that 'ud be quite a dandther!" + +"It didn't take ye long t' git a fortune, did it?" another asked. + +"I never acquired a fortune such as you are thinking of." + +"Anna said ye wor rich!" + +"Anna was right, I am rich, but I was the richest boy in Antrim when I +lived here." + +They looked dumbfounded. + +"How's that?" Mrs. Conner queried. + +"Because Anna was my mother." + +I didn't want to discuss Anna at that time or to that gathering, so I +gave the conversation a sudden turn and diplomatically led them in +another direction. I explained how much easier it was for a policeman +than a minister to make a "fortune" and most Irishmen in America had a +special bias toward law! Jamie had grown so deaf that he could only hear +when I shouted into his ear. Visitors kept on coming, until the little +house was uncomfortably full. + +"Wouldn't it be fine," I shouted into Jamie's ear, "if Billy O'Hare or +Withero could just drop in now?" + +"God save us all," he said, "th' oul days an' oul faces are gone +foriver." After some hours of entertainment the uninvited guests were +invited to go home. + +I pulled Jamie's old tub out into the center of the floor and, taking my +coat off, said gently: "Now, good neighbors, I have traveled a long +distance and need a bath, and if you don't mind I'll have one at once!" + +They took it quite seriously and went home quickly. As soon as the house +was cleared I shut and barred the door and Mary and I proceeded to +prepare the evening meal. + +I brought over the table and put it in its place near the fire. In +looking over the old dresser I noticed several additions to the +inventory I knew. The same old plates were there, many of them broken +and arranged to appear whole. All holes, gashes, dents and cracks were +turned back or down to deceive the beholder. There were few whole pieces +on the dresser. + +"Great guns, Mary," I exclaimed, "here are two new plates and a new cup! +Well, well, and you never said a word in any of your letters about +them." + +"Ye needn't get huffed if we don't tell ye all the startlin' things!" +Mary said. + +"Ah!" I exclaimed, "there's _her_ cup!" I took the precious thing from +the shelf. The handle was gone, there was a gash at the lip and a few +new cracks circling around the one I was familiar with twenty years +previously. + +What visions of the past came to me in front of that old dresser! How +often in the long ago she had pushed that old cup gently toward me along +the edge of the table--gently, to escape notice and avoid jealousy. +Always at the bottom of it a teaspoonful of _her_ tea and beneath the +tea a bird's-eye-full of sugar. Each fairy picture of straggling tea +leaves was our moving picture show of those old days. We all had tea +leaves, but she had imagination. How we laughed and sighed and swithered +over the fortunes spread out all over the inner surface of that cup! + +"If ye stand there affrontin' our poor oul delf all night we won't haave +aany tea at all!" Mary said. The humor had gone from my face and speech +from my tongue. I felt as one feels when he looks for the last time upon +the face of his best friend. Mary laughed when I laid the old cup on a +comparatively new saucer at my place. There was another laugh when I +laid it out for customs inspection in the port of New York. I had a set +of rather delicate after-dinner coffee cups. One bore the arms of +Coventry in colors; another had the seal of St. John's College, Oxford; +one was from Edinburgh and another from Paris. They looked aristocratic. +I laid them out in a row and at the end of the row sat the proletarian, +forlorn and battered--Anna's old tea-cup. + +"What did you pay for this?" asked the inspector as he touched it +contemptuously with his official toe. + +"Never mind what I paid for it," I replied, "it's valued at a million +dollars!" The officer laughed and I think the other cups laughed also, +but they were not contemptuous; they were simply jealous. + +Leisurely I went over the dresser, noting the new chips and cracks, +handling them, maybe fondling some of them and putting them as I found +them. + +"I'll jist take a cup o' tay," Jamie said, "I'm not feelin' fine." + +I had less appetite than he had, and Mary had less than either of us. So +we sipped our tea for awhile in silence. + +"She didn't stay long afther ye left," Jamie said, without looking up. +Turning to Mary he continued, "How long was it, aanyway, Mary?" + +"Jist a wee while." + +"Aye, I know it wasn't long." + +"Did she suffer much?" I asked. + +"She didn't suffer aany at all," he said, "she jist withered like th' +laves on th' threes." + +"She jist hankered t' go," Mary added. + +"Wan night whin Mary was asleep," Jamie continued, "she read over again +yer letther--th' wan where ye wor spakin' so much about fishin'." + +"Aye," I said, "I had just been appointed missionary to a place called +the Bowery, in New York, and I wrote her that I was no longer her +plowman, but her _fisher of men_." + +"Och, maan, if ye cud haave heard her laugh over th' different kinds ov +fishes ye wor catchin'! Iv'ry day for weeks she read it an' laughed an' +cried over it. That night she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I don't +care s' much fur fishers ov men as I do for th' plowman.' 'Why?' says I. + +"'Because,' says she, 'a gey good voice an' nice clothes will catch men, +an' wimen too, but it takes brains t' plow up th' superstitions ov th' +ignorant.' + +"'There's somethin' in that,' says I. + +"'Tell 'im whin he comes,' says she, 'that I put th' handles ov a plow +in his han's an' he's t' let go ov thim only in death.' + +"'I'll tell 'm,' says I, 'but it's yerself that'll be here whin he +comes,' says I. She smiled like an' says she, 'What ye don't know, +Jamie, wud make a pretty big library.' 'Aye,' says I, 'I haaven't aany +doubt ov that, Anna.'" + +"There was a loud knock at the door." + +"Let thim dundther," Mary said. He put his hand behind his ear and asked +eagerly: + +"What is 't?" + +"Somebody's dundtherin'." + +"Let thim go t' h----," he said angrily. + +"Th' tuk 'im frum Anna last time, th' won't take 'im frum me an' you, +Mary." + +Another and louder knock. + +"It's Misthress Healy," came a voice. Again his hand was behind his ear. +The name was repeated to him. + +"Misthress Healy, is it; well, I don't care a d--n if it was Misthress +Toe-y!" + +For a quarter of a century my sister has occupied my mother's +chimney-corner, but it was vacant that night. She sat on my father's +side of the fire. He and I sat opposite each other at the table--I on +the same spot, on the same stool where I used to sit when her cup +toward the close of the meal came traveling along the edge of the table +and where her hand with a crust in it would sometimes blindly grope for +mine. + +But she was not there. In all my life I have never seen a space so +empty! + +My father was a peasant, with all the mental and physical +characteristics of his class. My sister is a peasant woman who has been +cursed with the same grinding poverty that cursed my mother's life. +About my mother there was a subtlety of intellect and a spiritual +quality that even in my ignorance was fascinating to me. I returned +equipped to appreciate it and she was gone. Gone, and a wide gulf lay +between those left behind, a gulf bridged by the relation we have to the +absent one more than by the relation we bore to each other. + +We felt as keenly as others the kinship of the flesh, but there are +kinships transcendentally higher, nobler and of a purer nature than the +nexus of the flesh. There were things to say that had to be left unsaid. +They had not traveled that way. The language of my experience would have +been a foreign tongue to them. _She_ would have understood. + +"Wan night be th' fire here," Jamie said, taking the pipe out of his +mouth, "she says t' me, 'Jamie,' says she, 'I'm clane done, jist clane +done, an' I won't be long here.' + +"'Och, don't spake s' downmouth'd, Anna,' says I. 'Shure ye'll feel fine +in th' mornin'.' + +"'Don't palaver,' says she, an' she lukt terrible serious. + +"'My God, Anna,' says I, 'ye wudn't be lavin' me alone,' says I, 'I +can't thole it.' + +"'Yer more strong,' says she, 'an' ye'll live till he comes back--thin +we'll be t'gether.'" + +He stopped there. He could go no farther for several minutes. + +"I hate a maan that gowls, but--" + +"Go on," I said, "have a good one and Mary and I will wash the cups and +saucers." + +"D'ye know what he wants t' help me fur?" Mary asked, with her mouth +close to his ear. + +"No." + +"He wants t' dhry thim so he can kiss _her_ cup whin he wipes it! Kiss +her _cup_, ye mind; and right content with that!" + +"I don't blame 'im," said he, "I'd kiss th' very groun' she walked on!" + +As we proceeded to wash the cups, Mary asked: + +"Diz th' ministhers in America wash dishes?" + +"Some of them." + +"What kind?" + +"My kind." + +"What do th' others do?" + +"The big ones lay corner-stones and the little ones lay foundations." + +"Saints alive," she said, "an' what do th' hens do?" + +"They clock" (hatch). + +"Pavin' stones?" + +"I didn't say pavin' stones!" + +"Oh, aye," she laughed loudly. + +"Luk here," Jamie said, "I want t' laugh too. Now what th' ---- is't yer +gigglin' at?" + +I explained. + +He smiled and said: + +"Jazus, bhoy, that reminds me ov Anna, she cud say more funny things +than aany wan I iver know'd." + +"And that reminds me," I said, "that the word you have just misused +_she_ always pronounced with a caress!" + +"Aye, I know rightly, but ye know I mane no harm, don't ye?" + +"I know, but you remember when _she_ used that word every letter in it +was dressed in its best Sunday clothes, wasn't it?" + +"Och, aye, an' I'd thravel twinty miles jist t' hear aany wan say it +like Anna!" + +"Well, I have traveled tens of thousands of miles and I have heard the +greatest preachers of the age, but I never heard any one pronounce it so +beautifully!" + +"But as I was a-sayin' bhoy, I haaven't had a rale good laugh since she +died; haave I, Mary?" + +"I haaven't naither," Mary said. + +"Aye, but ye've had double throuble, dear." + +"We never let trouble rob us of laughter when I was here." + +"Because whin ye wor here she was here too. In thim days whin throuble +came she'd tear it t' pieces an' make fun ov aych piece, begorra. Ye +might glour an' glunch, but ye'd haave t' laugh before th' finish--shure +ye wud!" + +The neighbors began to knock again. Some of the knocks were vocal and as +plain as language. Some of the more familiar gaped in the window. + +"Hes he hed 'is bath yit?" asked McGrath, the ragman. + +We opened the door and in marched the inhabitants of our vicinity for +the second "crack." + +This right of mine own people to come and go as they pleased suggested +to me the thought that if I wanted to have a private conversation with +my father I would have to take him to another town. + +The following day we went to the churchyard together--Jamie and I. Over +her grave he had dragged a rough boulder and on it in a straggling, +unsteady, amateur hand were painted her initials and below them his own. +He was unable to speak there, and maybe it was just as well. I knew +everything he wanted to say. It was written on his deeply furrowed face. +I took his arm and led him away. + +Our next call was at Willie Withero's stone-pile. There, when I +remembered the nights that I passed in my new world of starched linen, +too good to shoulder a bundle of his old hammers, I was filled with +remorse. I uncovered my head and in an undertone muttered, "God forgive +me." + +"Great oul bhoy was Willie," he said. + +"Aye." + +"Och, thim wor purty nice times whin he'd come in o' nights an' him an' +Anna wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an' I'll soon be wi' +thim." + +I bade farewell to Mary and took him to Belfast--for a private talk. +Every day for a week we went out to the Cave hill--to a wild and lonely +spot where I had a radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. The thing +of all things that I wanted him to know was that in America I had been +engaged in the same fight with poverty that they were familiar with at +home. It was hard for him to think of a wolf of hunger at the door of +any home beyond the sea. It was astounding to him to learn that around +me always there were thousands of ragged, starving people. He just gaped +and exclaimed: + +"It's quare, isn't it?" + +We sat on the grass on the hillside, conscious each of us that we were +saying the things one wants to say on the edge of the grave. + +"She speyed I'd live t' see ye," he said. + +"She speyed well," I answered. + +"Th' night she died somethin' wontherful happened t' me. I wasn't as +deef as I am now, but I was purty deef. D'ye know, that night I cud +hear th' aisiest whisper frum her lips--I cud that. She groped fur m' +han; 'Jamie,' says she, 'it's nearly over, dear.' + +"'God love ye,' says I. + +"'Aye,' says she, 'if He'll jist love me as ye've done it'll be fine.' +Knowin' what a rough maan I'd been, I cudn't thole it. + +"'Th' road's been gey rocky an' we've made many mistakes.' + +"'Aye,' I said, 'we've barged (scolded) a lot, Anna, but we didn't mane +it.' + +"'No,' says she, 'our crock ov love was niver dhrained.' + +"I brot a candle in an' stuck it in th' sconce so 's I cud see 'er +face." + +"'We might haave done betther,' says she, 'but sich a wee house, so many +childther an' so little money.' + +"'We war i' hard up,' says I. + +"'We wor niver hard up in love, wor we?' + +"'No, Anna,' says I, 'but love dizn't boil th' kittle.' + +"'Wud ye rather haave a boilin' kittle than love if ye had t' choose?' + +"'Och, no, not at all, ye know rightly I wudn't.' + +"'Forby, Jamie, we've given Antrim more'n such men as Lord Massarene.' + +"'What's that?' says I. + +"'A maan that loves th' poorest craithers on earth an' serves thim.' + +"She had a gey good sleep afther that." + +"'Jamie,' says she whin she awoke, 'was I ravin'?' + +"'Deed no, Anna,' says I. + +"'I'm not ravin' now, am I?' + +"'Acushla, why do ye ask sich a question?' + +"'Tell 'im I didn't like "fisher ov men" as well as "th' plowman." It's +aisy t' catch thim fish, it's hard t' plow up ignorance an' +superstition--tell 'im that fur me, Jamie?' + +"'Aye, I'll tell 'im, dear.' + +"'Ye mind what I say'd t' ye on th' road t' Antrim, Jamie? That "love is +Enough"?' + +"'Aye.' + +"'I tell ye again wi' my dyin' breath.' + +"I leaned over an' kiss't 'er an' she smiled at me. Ah, bhoy, if ye +could haave seen that luk on 'er face, it was like a picture ov th' +Virgin, it was that. + +"'Tell th' childther there's only wan kind ov poverty, Jamie, an' that's +t' haave no love in th' heart,' says she. + +"'Aye, I'll tell thim, Anna,' says I." + +He choked up. The next thought that suggested itself for expression +failed of utterance. The deep furrows on his face grew deeper. His lips +trembled. When he could speak, he said: + +"My God, bhoy, we had to beg a coffin t' bury 'er in!" + +"If I had died at the same time," I said, "they would have had to do the +same for me!" + +"How quare!" he said. + +I persuaded him to accompany me to one of the largest churches in +Belfast. I was to preach there. That was more than he expected and the +joy of it was overpowering. + +I do not remember the text, nor could I give at this distance of time an +outline of the discourse: it was one of those occasions when a man +stands on the borderland of another world. I felt distinctly the +spiritual guidance of an unseen hand. I took her theme and spoke more +for her approval than for the approval of the crowd. + +He could not hear, but he listened with his eyes. On the street, after +the service, he became oblivious of time and place and people. He threw +his long lean arms around my neck and kissed me before a crowd. He hoped +Anna was around listening. I told him she was and he said he would like +to be "happed up" beside her, as he had nothing further to hope for in +life. + +In fear and trembling he crossed the Channel with me. In fear lest he +should die in Scotland and they would not bury him in Antrim churchyard +beside Anna. We visited my brothers and sisters for several days. Every +day we took long walks along the country roads. These walks were full of +questionings. Big vital questions of life and death and immorality. +They were quaintly put: + +"There's a lot of balderdash about another world, bhoy. On yer oath now, +d'ye think there is wan?" + +"I do." + +"If there is wud He keep me frum Anna jist because I've been kinda +rough?" + +"I am sure He wouldn't!" + +"He wudn't be s' d--d niggardly, wud He?" + +"Never! God is love and love doesn't work that way!" + +At the railway station he was still pouring in his questions. + +"D'ye believe in prayer?" + +"Aye." + +"Well, jist ax sometimes that Anna an' me be together, will ye?" + +"Aye." + +A little group of curious bystanders stood on the platform watching the +little trembling old man clinging to me as the tendril of a vine clings +to the trunk of a tree. + +"We have just one minute, Father!" + +"Aye, aye, wan minute--my God, why cudn't ye stay?" + +"There are so many voices calling me over the sea." + +"Aye, that's thrue." + +He saw them watching him and he feebly dragged me away from the crowd. +He kissed me passionately, again and again, on the lips. The whistle +blew. + +"All aboard!" the guard shouted. He clutched me tightly and clung to me +with the clutch of a drowning man. I had to extricate myself and spring +on board. I caught a glimpse of him as the train moved out; despair and +a picture of death was on his face. His lips were trembling and his eyes +were full of tears. + + * * * * * + +A few months later they lowered him to rest beside my mother. I want to +go back some day and cover them with a slab of marble, on which their +names will be cut, and these words: + + +"Love is Enough." + + + + +THE END + + + + + +-----------------------------------+ + |Transcriber's Note: | + |Inconsistent hyphenization retained| + +-----------------------------------+ + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's My Lady of the Chimney Corner, by Alexander Irvine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LADY OF THE CHIMNEY CORNER *** + +***** This file should be named 31765.txt or 31765.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/7/6/31765/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, Joseph R. 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