it reported that Elder Fry calculates to give up preachin' an' go into
the creamery business another spring. You know he's had means left
him, and his throat's kind o' give out; trouble with the pipes. I
called it brown caters, an' explained nigh as I could without hurtin'
of his pride that he'd bawled more 'n any pipes could stand. I git so
wore out settin' under him that I feel to go an' lay right out in the
woods arterwards, where it's still. 'T won't never do for him to deal
so with callin' of his cows; they'd be so aggravated 't would be more
'n any butter business could bear."
"You hadn't ought to speak so light now; he's a very feelin' man
towards any one in trouble," Sister Pinkham rebuked the speaker. "I
set consider'ble by Elder Fry. You sort o' divert yourself dallying
round the country with your essences and remedies, an' you ain't never
sagged down with no settled grievance, as most do. Think o' what the
Elder's be'n through, a-losin' o' three good wives. I'm one o' them
that ain't found life come none too easy, an' Elder Fry's preachin'
stayed my mind consider'ble."
"I s'pose you're right, if you think you be," acknowledged the little
man humbly. "I can't say as I esteem myself so fortunate as most. I
'in a lonesome creatur', an' always was; you know I be. I did expect
somebody 'd engage my affections before this."
"There, plenty 'd be glad to have ye."
"I expect they would, but I don't seem to be drawed to none on 'em,"
replied Mr. Teaby, with a mournful shake of his head. "I've spoke
pretty decided to quite a number in my time, take 'em all together,
but it always appeared best not to follow it up; an' so when I'd come
their way again I'd laugh it off or somethin', in case 't was referred
to. I see one now an' then that I kind o' fancy, but 't ain't the real
thing."
"You mustn't expect to pick out a handsome gal, at your age," insisted
Sister Pinkham, in a business-like way. "Time's past for all that, an'
you've got the name of a rover. I've heard some say that you was rich,
but that ain't every thin'. You must take who you can git, and look
you up a good home; I would. If you was to be taken down with any
settled complaint, you'd be distressed to be without a place o' your
own, an' I'm glad to have this chance to tell ye so. Plenty o' folks
is glad to take you in for a short spell, an' you've had an excellent
chance to look the ground over well. I tell you you're beginnin' to
git along in years."
"I know I be," said Mr. Teaby. "I can't travel now as I used to. I
have to favor my left leg. I do' know but I be spoilt for settlin'
down. This business I never meant to follow stiddy, in the fust place;
't was a means to an end, as one may say."
"Folks would miss ye, but you could take a good long trip, say spring
an' fall, an' live quiet the rest of the year. What if they do git out
o' essence o' lemon an' pep'mint! There's sufficient to the stores; 't
ain't as 't used to be when you begun."
"There's Ann Maria Hart, my oldest sister's daughter. I kind of call
it home with her by spells and when the travelin' 's bad."
"Good King Agrippy! if that's the best you can do, I feel for you,"
exclaimed the energetic adviser. "She's a harmless creatur' and seems
to keep ploddin, but slack ain't no description, an' runs on talkin'
about nothin' till it strikes right in an' numbs ye. She's pressed for
house room, too. Hart ought to put on an addition long ago, but he's
too stingy to live. Folks was tellin' me that somebody observed to him
how he'd got a real good, stiddy man to work with him this summer.
'He's called a very pious man, too, great hand in meetin's, Mr. Hart,'
says they; an' says he, 'I'd have you rec'lect he's a-prayin' out o'
my time!' Said it hasty, too, as if he meant it."
"Well, I can put up with Hart; he's near, but he uses me well, an' I
try to do the same by him. I don't bange on 'em; I pay my way, an' I
feel as if everything was temp'rary. I did plan to go way over North
Dexter way, where I've never be'n, an' see if there wa'n't somebody,
but the weather ain't be'n settled as I could wish. I'm always
expectin' to find her, I be so,"--at which I observed Sister Pinkham's
frame shake.
I felt a slight reproach of conscience at listening so intently to
these entirely private affairs, and at this point reluctantly left my
place and walked along the platform, to remind Sister Pinkham and
confiding Mr. Teaby of my neighborhood. They gave no sign that there
was any objection to the presence of a stranger, and so I came back
gladly to the baggage truck, and we all kept silence for a little
while. A fine flavor of extracts was wafted from the valise to where I
sat. I pictured to myself the solitary and hopeful wanderings of
Mr. Teaby. There was an air about him of some distinction; he might
have been a decayed member of the medical profession. I observed that
his hands were unhardened by any sort of rural work, and he sat there
a meek and appealing figure, with his antique hat and linen duster,
beside the well-wadded round shoulders of friendly Sister Pinkham. The
expression of their backs was most interesting.
"You might express it that I've got quite a number o' good homes; I've
got me sorted out a few regular places where I mostly stop," Mr. Teaby
explained presently. "I like to visit with the old folks an' speak o'
the past together; an' the boys an' gals, they always have some kind
o' fun goin' on when I git along. They always have to git me out to
the barn an' tell me, if they're a-courtin', and I fetch an' carry for
'em in that case, an' help out all I can. I've made peace when they
got into some o' their misunderstanding, an' them times they set a
good deal by Uncle Teaby; but they ain't all got along as well as they
expected, and that's be'n one thing that's made me desirous not to git
fooled myself. But I do' know as folks would be reconciled to my
settlin' down in one place. I've gathered a good many extry receipts
for things, an' folks all calls me somethin' of a doctor; you know my
grand'ther was one, on my mother's side."
"Well, you've had my counsel for what 't is wuth," said the woman, not
unkindly. "Trouble is, you want better bread than's made o' wheat."
"I'm 'most ashamed to ask ye again if 't would be any use to lay the
matter before Hannah Jane Pinkham?" This was spoken lower, but I could
hear the gentle suggestion.
"I'm obleeged to _you_" said the lady of Mr. Teaby's choice, "but I
ain't the right one. Don't you go to settin' your mind on me: 't ain't
wuth while. I'm older than you be, an' apt to break down with my
rheumatic complaints. You don't want nobody on your hands. I'd git a
younger woman, I would so."
"I've be'n a-lookin' for the right one a sight o' years, Hannah Jane.
I've had a kind o' notion I should know her right off when I fust see
her, but I'm afeared it ain't goin' to be that way. I've seen a sight
o' nice, smart women, but when the thought o' you was so impressed on
my mind day before yisterday"--
"I'm sorry to disobleege you, but if I have anybody, I'm kind o' half
promised to Elder Fry," announced Sister Pinkham bravely. "I consider
it more on the off side than I did at first. If he'd continued
preachin' I'd favor it more, but I dread havin' to 'tend to a growin'
butter business an' to sense them new machines. 'T ain't as if he'd
'stablished it. I've just begun to have things easy; but there, I feel
as if I had a lot o' work left in me, an' I don't know's 't is right
to let it go to waste. I expect the Elder would preach some, by
spells, an' we could ride about an' see folks; an' he'd always be
called to funerals, an' have some variety one way an' another. I urge
him not to quit preachin'."
"I'd rather he ondertook 'most anythin' else," said Mr. Teaby, rising
and trying to find the buttons of his linen duster.
I could see a bitter shade of jealousy cloud his amiable face; but
Sister Pinkham looked up at him and laughed. "Set down, set down," she
said. "We ain't in no great hurry;" and Uncle Teaby relented, and
lingered. "I'm all out o' rose-water for the eyes," she told him, "an'
if you've got a vial o' lemon left that you'll part with reasonable, I
do' know but I'll take that. I'd rather have caught you when you was
outward bound; your bag looks kind o' slim."
"Everythin' 's fresh-made just before I started, 'cept the ginger, an'
that I buy, but it's called the best there is."
The two sat down and drove a succession of sharp bargains, but finally
parted the best of friends. Mr. Teaby kindly recognized my presence
from a business point of view, and offered me a choice of his wares at
reasonable prices. I asked about a delightful jumping-jack which made
its appearance, and wished very much to become the owner, for it was
curiously whittled out and fitted together by Mr. Teaby's own hands.
He exhibited the toy to Sister Pinkham and me, to our great pleasure,
but scorned to sell such a trifle, it being worth nothing; and beside,
he had made it for a little girl who lived two miles farther along the
road he was following. I could see that she was a favorite of the old
man's, and said no more about the matter, but provided myself, as
recommended, with an ample package of court-plaster, "in case of
accident before I got to where I was going," and a small bottle of
smelling-salts, described as reviving to the faculties.
Then we watched Mr. Teaby plod away, a quaint figure, with his large
valise nearly touching the ground as it hung slack from his right
hand. The greenish-brown duster looked bleak and unseasonable as a
cloud went over the sun; it appeared to symbolize the youthful and
spring-like hopes of the wearer, decking the autumn days of life.
"Poor creatur'!" said Sister Pinkham. "There, he doos need somebody to
look after him."
She turned to me frankly, and I asked how far he was going.
"Oh, he'll put up at that little gal's house an' git his dinner, and
give her the jumpin'-jack an' trade a little; an' then he'll work
along the road, callin' from place to place. He's got a good deal o'
system, an' was a smart boy, so that folks expected he was goin' to
make a doctor, but he kind o' petered out. He's long-winded an'
harpin', an' some folks prays him by if they can; but there, most
likes him, an' there's nobody would be more missed. He don't make no
trouble for 'em; he'll take right holt an' help, and there ain't
nobody more gentle with the sick. Always has some o' his nonsense over
to me."
This was added with sudden consciousness that I must have heard the
recent conversation, but we only smiled at each other, and good Sister
Pinkham did not seem displeased. We both turned to look again at the
small figure of Mr. Teaby, as he went away, with his queer, tripping
gait, along the level road.
"Pretty day, if 't wa'n't quite so warm," said Sister Pinkham, as she
rose and reached for her bandbox and bundle, to resume her own
journey. "There, if here ain't Uncle Teaby's umbrilla! He forgits
everything that belongs to him but that old valise. Folks wouldn't
know him if he left that. You may as well just hand it to Asa Briggs,
the depot-master, when he gits back. Like's not the old gentleman 'll
think to call for it as he comes back along. Here's his fan, too, but
he won't be likely to want that this winter."
She looked at the large umbrella; there was a great deal of good
material in it, but it was considerably out of repair.
"I don't know but I'll stop an' mend it up for him, poor old
creatur'," she said slowly, with an apologetic look at me. Then she
sat down again, pulled a large rolled-up needlebook from her deep and
accessible pocket, and sewed busily for some time with strong
stitches.
I sat by and watched her, and was glad to be of use in chasing her
large spool of linen thread, which repeatedly rolled away along the
platform. Sister Pinkham's affectionate thoughts were evidently
following her old friend.
"I've a great mind to walk back with the umbrilla; he may need it, an'
't ain't a great ways," she said to me, and then looked up quickly,
blushing like a girl. I wished she would, for my part, but it did not
seem best for a stranger to give advice in such serious business.
"I'll tell you what I will do," she told me innocently, a moment
afterwards. "I'll take the umbrilla along with me, and leave word with
Asa Briggs I've got it. I go right by his house, so you needn't charge
your mind nothin' about it."
By the time she had taken off her gold-bowed spectacles and put them
carefully away and was ready to make another start, she had learned
where I came from and where I was going and what my name was, all this
being but poor return for what I had gleaned of the history of herself
and Mr. Teaby. I watched Sister Pinkham until she disappeared,
umbrella in hand, over the crest of a hill far along the road to the
eastward.
THE LUCK OF THE BOGANS.
I.
The old beggar women of Bantry streets had seldom showered their
blessings upon a departing group of emigrants with such hearty good
will as they did upon Mike Bogan and his little household one May
morning.
Peggy Muldoon, she of the game leg and green-patched eye and limber
tongue, steadied herself well back against the battered wall at the
street corner and gave her whole energy to a torrent of speech unusual
to even her noble powers. She would not let Mike Bogan go to America
unsaluted and unblessed; she meant to do full honor to this second
cousin, once removed, on the mother's side.
"Yirra, Mike Bogan, is it yerself thin, goyn away beyant the says?"
she began with true dramatic fervor. "Let poor owld Peg take her last
look on your laughing face me darlin'. She'll be under the ground this
time next year, God give her grace, and you far away lavin' to strange
spades the worruk of hapin' the sods of her grave. Give me one last
look at me darlin' lad wid his swate Biddy an' the shild. Oh that I
live to see this day!"
Peg's companions, old Marget Dunn and Biddy O'Hern and no-legged Tom
Whinn, the fragment of a once active sailor who propelled himself by a
low truckle cart and two short sticks; these interesting members of
society heard the shrill note of their leader's eloquence and suddenly
appeared like beetles out of unsuspected crevices near by. The side
car, upon which Mike Bogan and his wife and child were riding from
their little farm outside the town to the place of departure, was
stopped at the side of the narrow street. A lank yellow-haired lad,
with eyes red from weeping sat swinging his long legs from the car
side, another car followed, heavily laden with Mike's sister's family,
and a mourning yet envious group of acquaintances footed it in the
rear. It was an excited, picturesque little procession; the town was
quickly aware of its presence, and windows went up from house to
house, and heads came out of the second and third stories and even in
the top attics all along the street. The air was thick with blessings,
the quiet of Bantry was permanently broken.
"Lard bliss us and save us!" cried Peggy, her shrill voice piercing
the chatter and triumphantly lifting itself in audible relief above
the din,--"Lard bliss us an' save us for the flower o' Bantry is
lavin' us this day. Break my heart wid yer goyn will ye Micky Bogan
and make it black night to the one eye that's left in me gray head
this fine mornin' o' spring. I that hushed the mother of you and the
father of you babies in me arms, and that was a wake old woman
followin' and crapin' to see yerself christened. Oh may the saints be
good to you Micky Bogan and Biddy Flaherty the wife, and forgive you
the sin an' shame of turning yer proud backs on ould Ireland. Ain't
there pigs and praties enough for ye in poor Bantry town that her
crabbedest childer must lave her. Oh wisha wisha, I'll see your face
no more, may the luck o' the Bogans follow you, that failed none o'
the Bogans yet. May the sun shine upon you and grow two heads of
cabbage in the same sprout, may the little b'y live long and get him a
good wife, and if she ain't good to him may she die from him. May
every hair on both your heads turn into a blessed candle to light your
ways to heaven, but not yit me darlin's--not yit!"
The jaunting car had been surrounded by this time and Mike and his
wife were shaking hands and trying to respond impartially to the
friendly farewells and blessings of their friends. There never had
been such a leave-taking in Bantry. Peggy Muldoon felt that her
eloquence was in danger of being ignored and made a final shrill
appeal. "Who'll bury me now?" she screamed with a long wail which
silenced the whole group; "who'll lay me in the grave, Micky bein'
gone from me that always gave me the kind word and the pinny or
trippence ivery market day, and the wife of him Biddy Flaherty the
rose of Glengariff; many's the fine meal she's put before old Peggy
Muldoon that is old and blind."
"Awh, give the ould sowl a pinny now," said a sympathetic voice, "'t
will bring you luck, more power to you." And Mike Bogan, the tears
streaming down his honest cheeks, plunged deep into his pocket and
threw the old beggar a broad five-shilling piece. It was a monstrous
fortune to Peggy. Her one eye glared with joy, the jaunting car moved
away while she fell flat on the ground in apparent excess of emotion.
The farewells were louder for a minute--then they were stopped; the
excitable neighborhood returned to its business or idleness and the
street was still. Peggy rose rubbing an elbow, and said with the air
of a queen to her retinue, "Coom away now poor crathurs, so we'll
drink long life to him." And Marget Dunn and Biddy O'Hern and
no-legged Tom Whinn with his truckle cart disappeared into an alley.
"What's all this whillalu?" asked a sober-looking, clerical gentleman
who came riding by.
"'T is the Bogans going to Ameriky, yer reverence," responded Jim
Kalehan, the shoemaker, from his low window. "The folks gived them
their wake whilst they were here to enjoy it and them was the keeners
that was goin' hippety with lame legs and fine joy down the convanient
alley for beer, God bless the poor souls!"
Mike Bogan and Biddy his wife looked behind them again and again. Mike
blessed himself fervently as he caught a last glimpse of the old
church on the hill where he was christened and married, where his
father and his grandfather had been christened and married and buried.
He remembered the day when he had first seen his wife, who was there
from Glengariff to stay with her old aunt, and coming to early mass,
had looked to him like a strange sweet flower abloom on the gray stone
pavement where she knelt. The old church had long stood on the steep
height at the head of Bantry street and watched and waited for her
children. He would never again come in from his little farm in the
early morning--he never again would be one of the Bantry men. The
golden stories of life in America turned to paltry tinsel, and a love
and pride of the old country, never forgotten by her sons and
daughters, burned with fierce flame on the inmost altar of his heart.
It had all been very easy to dream fine dreams of wealth and
landownership, but in that moment the least of the pink daisies that
were just opening on the roadside was dearer to the simple-hearted
emigrant than all the world beside.
"Lave me down for a bit of sod," he commanded the wondering young
driver, who would have liked above all things to sail for the new
world. The square of turf from the hedge foot, sparkling with dew and
green with shamrock and gay with tiny flowers, was carefully wrapped
in Mike's best Sunday handkerchief as they went their way. Biddy had
covered her head with her shawl--it was she who had made the plan of
going to America, it was she who was eager to join some successful
members of her family who had always complained at home of their
unjust rent and the difficulties of the crops. Everybody said that the
times were going to be harder than ever that summer, and she was quick
to catch at the inflammable speeches of some lawless townsfolk who
were never satisfied with anything. As for Mike, the times always
seemed alike, he did not grudge hard work and he never found fault
with the good Irish weather. His nature was not resentful, he only
laughed when Biddy assured him that the gorse would soon grow in the
thatch of his head as it did on their cabin chimney. It was only when
she said that, in America they could make a gentleman of baby Dan,
that the father's blue eyes glistened and a look of determination came
into his face.
"God grant we'll come back to it some day," said Mike softly. "I
didn't know, faix indeed, how sorry I'd be for lavin' the owld place.
Awh Biddy girl 't is many the weary day we'll think of the home we've
left," and Biddy removed the shawl one instant from her face only to
cover it again and burst into a new shower of tears. The next day but
one they were sailing away out of Queenstown harbor to the high seas.
Old Ireland was blurring its green and purple coasts moment by moment;
Kinsale lay low, and they had lost sight of the white cabins on the
hillsides and the pastures golden with furze. Hours before the old
women on the wharves had turned away from them shaking their great cap
borders. Hours before their own feet had trodden the soil of Ireland
for the last time. Mike Bogan and Biddy had left home, they were well
on their way to America. Luckily nobody had been with them at last to
say good-by--they had taken a more or less active part in the piteous
general leave-taking at Queenstown, but those were not the faces of
their own mothers or brothers to which they looked back as the ship
slid away through the green water.
"Well, sure, we're gone now," said Mike setting his face westward and
tramping the steerage deck. "I like the say too, I belave, me own
grandfather was a sailor, an' 't is a fine life for a man. Here's
little Dan goin' to Ameriky and niver mistrustin'. We'll be sindin'
the gossoon back again, rich and fine, to the owld place by and by,
'tis thrue for us, Biddy."
But Biddy, like many another woman, had set great changes in motion
and then longed to escape from their consequences. She was much
discomposed by the ship's unsteadiness. She accused patient Mike of
having dragged her away from home and friends. She grew very white in
the face, and was helped to her hard steerage berth where she had
plenty of time for reflection upon the vicissitudes of seafaring. As
for Mike, he grew more and more enthusiastic day by day over their
prospects as he sat in the shelter of the bulkhead and tended little
Dan and talked with his companions as they sailed westward.
Who of us have made enough kindly allowance for the homesick
quick-witted ambitious Irish men and women, who have landed every year
with such high hopes on our shores. There are some of a worse sort, of
whom their native country might think itself well rid--but what
thrifty New England housekeeper who takes into her home one of the
pleasant-faced little captive maids, from Southern Ireland, has half
understood the change of surroundings. That was a life in the open air
under falling showers and warm sunshine, a life of wit and humor, of
lavishness and lack of provision for more than the passing day--of
constant companionship with one's neighbors, and a cheerful serenity
and lack of nervous anticipation born of the vicinity of the Gulf
Stream. The climate makes the characteristics of Cork and Kerry; the
fierce energy of the Celtic race in America is forced and stimulated
by our own keen air. The beauty of Ireland is little hinted at by an
average orderly New England town--many a young girl and many a
blundering sturdy fellow is heartsick with the homesickness and
restraint of his first year in this golden country of hard work. To so
many of them a house has been but a shelter for the night--a
sleeping-place: if you remember that, you do not wonder at fumbling
fingers or impatience with our houses full of trinkets. Our needless
tangle of furnishing bewilders those who still think the flowers that
grow of themselves in the Irish thatch more beautiful than anything
under the cover of our prosaic shingled roofs.
"Faix, a fellow on deck was telling me a nate story the day," said
Mike to Biddy Bogan, by way of kindly amusement. "Says he to me,
'Mike,' says he, 'did ye ever hear of wan Pathrick O'Brien that heard
some bla'guard tell how in Ameriky you picked up money in the
streets?' 'No,' says I. 'He wint ashore in a place,' says he, 'and he
walked along and he come to a sign on a wall. Silver Street was on it.
"I 'ont stap here," says he, "it ain't wort my while at all, at all.
I'll go on to Gold Street," says he, but he walked ever since and he
ain't got there yet.'"