The next morning Pat stepped out into the kitchen and donned his apron
in a downcast mood. The uplift of his mother's praise had passed, and
the fact remained that to-day he was to go out to service like a girl.
The little boys were up and stowed here and there waiting for breakfast.
Some little boys cannot be kept in bed mornings as long as their elders
could wish, and the widow's little boys were of that kind.
"Get up, if you want to," was Mrs. O'Callaghan's counsel to her youngest
sons, "but see to it you don't get under Pat's feet. Nayther must you be
runnin' out doors, for Moike to be haulin' you in when breakfast's
ready."
These orders shut the little fellows into a narrow space, and they were
always eager for the morning meal to be over. Andy and Jim were not in
such a hurry to rise, having reached the age when boys need a deal of
persuasion to get them up.
"They'll be along in a minute," thought the widow. "Here comes Moike."
[Illustration: "Pat donned his apron."]
Along they were in a minute, as their mother had predicted. The little
woman was fond of effect. "There's toimes when it's the thing to spake
before 'em all," she thought. "This is wan of 'em. Pat needs heartenin'
a bit."
Then with an air of authority she said: "Pat, off with your apron!"
The rest were eyes and ears at once as their mother meant they should
be, but Pat only stared in surprise. Some way he felt stupid this
morning.
"Off with your apron," repeated Mrs. O'Callaghan, "and sit you down in
the father's chair. I get the breakfast this mornin'."
With a shamefaced blush Pat obeyed, amid the wondering looks of his
brothers.
"You'll be sayin' farewell to Pat this mornin'," went on the widow, her
glance traveling from one to another. "It's lavin' us he is to go to
Gineral Brady's to live. 'Tis hard toimes we've been havin' and harder's
before us. Pat seen it and he's a-goin' to help. He'll be gettin' his
board and he'll still be goin' to school."
At this Pat started.
"Did you think I'd be willin' for you to lave school, my son?" asked the
mother tenderly.
Then turning to the rest once more, "And it's a dollar a week he'll be
gettin' besides. He's his father's son, and he's got a head older than
his years, or he'd niver 'a' been the brave b'y he is, nor seen nothin'
to be brave about, nayther. And he'll be comin' to visit us when Mrs.
Brady can spare him, and that'll be when his work's done, of course; and
always he sits in his father's chair."
Redder and redder flushed Pat's cheeks, seeing which the widow adroitly
drew the general attention to her second son.
"And here's the chance for Moike," she said, going busily on with her
work. "Will you be makin' the beds and kapin' things shinin' and doin'
the cookin' for us all?"
"You know I will, mother."
The little woman smiled. "Sure and I knowed you would. I jist asked you.
"Now, b'ys, there's what they call permotions. Often and often have I
heard your father spake of 'em. We're havin' some of 'em this mornin'.
Pat, he goes to earnin' money and his board. That gives Moike a chance
to step up into his place, do you see? That's what permotions is for,
I'm thinkin'--to give the wans behoind you a chance. Always step up when
you honestly can, b'ys, if for no other reason, to give the wan behoind
you a chance. There's no tellin' what he can do till he gets a chance,
do you see? Tim, he wouldn't 'a' stayed foightin' a private if the wan
ahead of him had only done his duty and stepped up. But some folks niver
does their duty, and it's hopin' I am you'll none of you be loike 'em.
It's a noice place Pat's goin' to, so 'tis. There's a queer little house
with a glass roof on jist across the street from it, and, by the same
token, it's a wonder how they can kape a glass roof on it. There's them
that can't even kape their window glass in, so there is, but goes
a-stuffin' up the holes with what they can get. It's full of plants, so
'tis, a sort of a garden house where they sells flowers for weddin's and
funerals and such, and maybe Pat'll be showin' you through it some day
when he gets acquainted. I'm told anybody can see it. Grane house, I
belave they calls it, but why anybody should call a garden house a grane
house I can't tell, for sure and it's not a bit of a grane idea to sell
flowers if you can find them that has the money to buy 'em."
At this, quiet little Andy, who was fond of his book, glanced up. "Maybe
they call it greenhouse because it's full of green things," he said.
The widow nodded two or three times in a convinced manner. "To be sure.
That's the reason," she said. "And it's proud I am to have for my third
son a b'y that can give the reasons of things. And there's another
permotion we was forgettin'. Andy'll take Moike's place, so he will, and
look after the little b'ys. A b'y that can give reasons can look after
'em wonderful, so he can, if he don't get so full of his reasons that he
forgets the little b'ys entoirely. But Andy'll not be doin' that. I
niver told you before, but your father's favorite brother was named
Andy, and a great wan he was for reasons, as I've heard.
"Now breakfast's ready, so 'tis. I took my toime to it, for permotions
always takes toime. There's them that wants permotion in such a hurry
that they all but knocks over the wans in front of 'em. And that's bad,
so 'tis. And no way at all, nayther. Jist kape yoursilf ready to step,
and when the toime comes step aisy loike a gintleman, and then folks
rej'ices with you, instead of feelin' of their bumps and wonderin' at
your impudence. And the worst of them koind of tryin's after permotions
is that it hurts them behoind you, for they're jist a-breathin' aisy, do
you see, when back you come a-tumblin' a-top of 'em, and lucky you are
if you don't go past 'em, and land nobody knows where."
Seldom were the little boys so deluged with wisdom beyond their power of
comprehension, but this was a special occasion, and as the general
effect of the widow's remarks was to stir up in all a determination to
do their best just where they were, her aim had been accomplished. Pat,
in particular, was encouraged. Perhaps he was in line of promotion. He
hoped it might come soon.
"Now, Moike," cried Mrs. O'Callaghan when Pat was gone, "here's a chance
for you. It's lucky I am to be at home the day. I'll be teachin' you a
bit of all sorts, so I will, for you've everything to larn, Moike, and
that's the truth, barrin' the lay of the tracks, and the switches, and
the empty cars a-standin' about, and how to kape the little b'ys from
hurtin' thimsilves."
Mike looked rather disheartened.
"You niver let 'em get hurted wanst, did you, Moike? And that's doin'
well, too. I hope Andy'll be comin' up to you in that."
So encouragingly did his mother smile upon him as she said these last
words that he visibly brightened. He was not tall and slender like Pat,
but rather short and of a sturdy build. And he tied on his apron with
determination in his eye.
"Do you know what you look loike, Moike?"
The boy glanced at her inquiringly.
"You look loike you was goin' to make short work of your larnin' and
come up to Pat before you know it. I niver knowed a b'y to get the worst
of it that looked that way out of his eye. It's a sort of 'do it I will,
and let them stop me that can' look, Moike dear. Not that anybody wants
to stop you, and it's an ilegant look, too, as I've often seen on your
father's face when he had a hard job ahead of him."
By this time Mike was ready for anything. He really knew more than his
mother gave him credit for, having furtively watched Pat more than once.
"Well, well, Moike!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Callaghan when the last bed was
made. "That's a sight better as Pat's first try at bed-makin'. If he was
here he'd say that wasn't so bad nayther, and it's yoursilf as knows
Pat's an ilegant bed-maker. If you'd seen him astonishin' Mrs. Gineral
Brady you'd 'a' seen a sight now. I was proud that day."
Mike smiled with satisfaction and reached for the broom. His mother said
nothing, but not a move escaped her critical eye. As far as the beds
could be moved, they were moved, and around them and under them went
Mike's busy broom. Mike was warm-blooded, and it was a pretty red-faced
boy that stood at last before his mother with the dustpan in his hand.
There was strong approval on the little woman's face.
"Pat himsilf couldn't 'a' beat that. It's my belafe you've got a gift
for swapin'," she said. "I can leave home to go to my washin' with an
aisy mind, I see, and with no fears of chance callers foindin' dirty
floors and mussy-lookin' beds a-disgracin' me. If widows is iver lucky,
which I doubt, Moike, I'm lucky this far. I've got some wonderful foine
sons, so I have."
Mike, at this, beamed with the consciousness that he was one of the sons
and a fully appreciated one, too. A long time he had stood in the shadow
of Pat's achievements. This morning he was showing what he could do.
"This permotion is pretty foine," said Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Moike, my b'y,
you have stepped up aisy loike a gintleman into Pat's place, and now
let's see you cook."
Mike looked crestfallen at once. "I can't cook, mother," he said. "Not
the least in the world. Often and often I've watched Pat, but I never
could get the hang of it."
The widow was silent a moment,
"Well, then!" she cried, "you've got the hang of bein' an honest b'y,
and not pretindin' to do what you can't do, and that's better as bein'
the best cook in the world. Niver do you pretind, Moike, not because
there's always somebody about to foind you out, but because pretindin's
mean. I'd have no pride left in me if I could think I had a pretindin'
b'y about the house. And now, Moike, I'll teach you to cook. It's my
belafe you can larn it. Why, Pat didn't know nothin' about it when he
begun, and now he can cook meat and potatoes and such better as many a
doless girl I've seen. You think Pat's cookin' tastes pretty good, don't
you, Moike?"
"I do, mother," said Mike earnestly and without a tinge of jealousy in
his tone. He loved and admired Pat with all his heart.
"You can larn it, too, if you only think so," encouraged Mrs.
O'Callaghan.
"There's them that think's that cookin's a special gift, and they're
right, too. But there's things about cookin' that anybody can attind to,
such as havin' kettles and pans clean, and kapin' the fire up when it's
needed, and not roastin' a body's brains out when it ain't needed. Yes,
and there's other things," she continued with increasing earnestness.
"There's them as thinks if they've a book or paper stuck about handy,
and them a-poppin' down to read a bit ivery now and then, it shows that
cookin's beneath 'em. And then the meat burns or it sogs and gets tough,
the potatoes don't get the water poured off of 'em in toime, and things
biles over on the stove or don't bile at all, at all, and what does all
that show, Moike? Not that they're above cookin', but that they're
lackin' in sinse. For a sinsible person always pays attintion to what
they're at, but a silly is lookin' all ways but the right wan, and ten
to wan but if you looked inside their skulls you'd foind 'em that empty
it would astonish you. Not that I'm down on readin', but that readin'
and cookin' hadn't ought to be mixed. Now, Moike, if any of these things
I've been tellin' you of happens to your cookin', you'll know where to
put the blame. Don't say, 'I wasn't made to cook, I guess'. That's what
I wanst heard a silly say when she'd burnt the dinner. But jist
understand that your wits must have been off a piece, and kape 'em by
you nixt toime. But what's that n'ise?"
She stepped to the door. A short distance off Jim was trying to get
something away from Barney, who was making up in roars what he lacked in
strength. Up went Mrs. O'Callaghan's hands to curve around her mouth and
form a speaking trumpet.
"Jim, come here!" she called.
Jim began to obey, and his mother, leaving Mike inside to think over her
remarks on cooking, stood waiting for his lagging feet.
"Well, Jim," she said when he stood before her, "it's ashamed of you I
am, and that's the truth. A big b'y loike you, noine years old,
a-snatchin' something from little Barney and him only sivin! It's my
belafe your father niver snatched nothin' from nobody."
At this Jim's countenance fell, for, in common with all his brothers, he
shared a strong desire to be like his father.
"You may go now, but remember you'll be takin' Andy's place some day,
a-carin' for the little wans."
The idea of taking Andy's place, even at so indefinite a period as
sometime, quite took the edge off his mother's rebuke, and Jim went
stepping off with great importance.
"Jim!" she called again, and the boy came back.
"That's a terrible swagger you've got on you, Jim. Walk natural. Your
father was niver wan of the swaggerin' sort. And jist remember that
takin' care of the little b'ys ain't lordin' it over 'em nayther."