There is no whip to ambition like success. Every day the widow thought,
and toiled, and kept her eyes open for chances for her boys. "For,
after all," said she, "twenty-one dollars a month is all too small to
kape six b'ys and mesilf when the winter's a-comin', and 'twon't be
twenty-one then nayther, for cows ain't drove to pasture in winter."
It was the second son who was listening this time, and the two were
alone in the shanty kitchen.
"The days is long, and I belave, Moike, you could do something else than
our own housework, with Andy here to look after the little b'ys."
"Say what it is, mother dear, and I'll do it," cried Mike, who had been
envying Pat his chance to earn.
"Well, then, to be telling you the truth, Moike, who should be askin' me
if I knowed of a boy to kape his lawn clean this summer but the Gineral.
Says I, 'I do, Gineral Brady. I'll be bold to say my Moike will do it.'
So there I've promised for you, Moike, and you're to have a dollar a
month."
The boy's delight at the prospect shone in his eyes and his mother went
on, "Strong and hearty you are, Moike, and I've been thinkin' what's to
hinder your gettin' other lawns with school out next week and nothin' to
bother you."
The little woman looked tired and warm. She was just home from
Thursday's wash, and she sat down wearily on one of the wooden chairs.
Mike saw it, and, to the boy who would be fourteen the next day, there
suddenly came a realizing sense of the stay his mother was to the
family. He noted with anxiety the lines that were deepening on her face.
"Sit in father's chair, mother dear," he coaxed. "'Twill rest you more."
The widow looked at him with a pleased expression creeping over her
face.
"You're father and mother both, so you are. Sit in father's chair,"
persuaded Mike.
"No," she answered, as she rose and went over to the seat of honor.
"Don't praise me too much. I'm jist your mother, doin' the best I can
for you, though."
And she sat down and leaned her head against the back of the chair.
The sturdy figure of the boy began to move briskly about. He made up the
fire and then he slipped out at the door and took an observation. No
shade anywhere but at the east end of the shanty, where the building
itself threw a shade. He hurried in again.
"Will you be gettin' up, mother dear, if you please?"
In surprise she stood up. The strong, young arms reached past her,
lifted the chair, and then the boy began to pick his way carefully so as
not to strike this treasured possession against anything.
"What are you doin', Moike?" asked Mrs. O'Callaghan in astonishment.
"I'm takin'--the chair--outside--where--there's a cool shade. 'Tis too
hot--for you here where I'm cookin'."
He turned and looked back as he stood in the doorway. "Come, mother
dear, and rest you in the cool."
"Moike! Moike!" cried the widow, touched by this attention. "'Tis what
your father would have done if he was here. Always afraid he was, that I
would be gettin' overtired or something. 'Tis sweet to have his b'y so
loike him."
Mike's heart gave a great throb. He knew now the taste of that praise
that kept Pat pushing ahead. "'Tis for Pat to lead--he's the oldest," he
thought over his cooking. "But see if I don't be lookin' out for mother
after this, and makin' it as easy for her as I can. I'd lug forty chairs
ten miles, so I would, to have her praise me like that."
The next morning the widow rose still weary. The kitchen was
uncomfortably warm as a sleeping place now, but what could be done about
it? Nothing.
"It's all there is, and I won't be sayin' a word about it, so I won't,"
she thought. "I'll jist tuck Larry in with Moike, and I guess I can
stand it."
Wash day for the home. She hardly felt equal to her task.
Breakfast was over, but what was Mike doing? Not making his beds, nor
washing his dishes. He had put on and filled the boiler. Now he was
carrying out wash bench and tubs to the west side of the shanty. The
west was the shady side of a morning. In he came again--this time for
the father's chair.
"'Tis an iligant breeze there is this mornin'," he cried. "Come out,
mother, dear, and sit in father's chair. You've got a wash boy this
mornin', so you have, and he'll need a lot of showin'."
He reached for the washboard as he ceased, and smiled lovingly on his
mother.
"Moike! Moike!" cried Mrs. O'Callaghan in a trembling tone, "'tis sweet
to be took care of. I hain't been took care of since your father died."
"Then 'tis time you was!" answered Mike. "And I'm the boy to do it, too.
Come out, mother dear."
And the mother went out.
"But there's your housework, Moike."
"That can wait," was the positive reply.
"But there's your schoolin'."
"I'm not goin' to school to-day. I know my lessons. I learnt 'em last
night. Will I be goin' to school and sittin' there all day, and you all
tired out a-washin' for us? I won't that."
"Moike, 'twas your father was dreadful headstrong when he set out to be.
It's fearin' I am you're loike him there."
But the happy light in her eyes was reflected on the face of her son as
he answered: "It's wantin' I am to be like him in everything, headstrong
and all. I'm not goin' to school to-day."
"And you needn't, Moike. I'll be ownin' to you now I didn't feel equal
to the washin', and that's the truth."
Mike nodded and went gayly into the house for warm water and the
clothes.
"There's more than one kind of a boy needed in a house," he said to
himself. "With seven of us mother ought to have 'em of all kinds. I'm
the one to be aisin' her. I'm built for it." And he rolled up his shirt
sleeves over his strong, muscular young arms.
"Now be careful," began Mike's first lesson in washing, "and don't waste
the soap and your strength a-tryin' to get the dirt out of the places
that ain't dirty. Rub where the rubbin's needed, and put the soap where
it's wanted. That's it. You're comin' on foine." And the widow resumed
her seat.
For a few moments she sat silent in thought. Then she said: "Do you know
what's the matter with this town, Moike? All the b'ys in it that wants
to work at all wants to do somethin' aisy, loike drivin' a delivery
wagon. Though the way they drive 'em ain't so aisy on the horses,
nayther. There's a lesson for you, Moike. Them that's so aisy on
themsilves is the very wans to be hard on iverything and iverybody. Them
that's got snail's feet of their own can't get a horse to go fast enough
for 'em, specially when the horse belongs to somebody else. And I'm jist
a-gettin' my courage up, Moike. I belave there'll be always something
for my b'ys to do, because my b'ys will _work_. And if they can't
get b'ys' work they'll do girls' work. Betwane you and me, Moike, I'm
proud of Pat. Have you heard the news? When school closes he's to have
two dollars a week, and three afternoons out all summer. And what do you
think Mrs. Brady says? She says she hain't had such help since she lived
in the East. She says she's restin', and she feels ten years younger.
That's your brother's work, Moike,--makin' a lady like Mrs. Gineral
Brady feel ten years younger. If there's aught to be ashamed of in that,
sure 'twould take a ninny to find out what it is. I'll warrant them
delivery b'ys' horses ain't feelin' ten years younger, anyway."
Mike's face showed that he relished his mother's talk; seeing which, she
went on: "You're doin' foine, Moike. Do you know there was a girl wanst
set to washin', and she had it in her moind to do a good job, too. The
first thing she got hold of was a pillow case with lace on the ind of
it--wide lace. And what does she do but lather that clean lace with soap
and put in her best licks on it, and all to no purpose at all only to
wear the lace to strings, and then, don't you think, she quite skipped
the body of the case where the head had been a-layin'."
Mike laughed.
That night as the widow and her boys sat outside the door in the cool,
quick steps came down the track, crunching the slack and cinders that
filled the spaces between the ties. It was Pat who was coming, and his
face was anxious.
"What ails you, mother dear?" he cried lovingly.
"Why, nothin', Pat, only I've got some sons that spoils me, so I have,
a-makin' much of me. 'Tis a dreadful complaint, ain't it? But there's
mothers as is not loike to die of it." And she laughed half tearfully.
She had been nearer breaking down that morning than she would admit, and
her nerves were still a little unsteady.
"Andy told me at recess Mike was stayin' home to wash, and I didn't know
what to think. I've been worryin' about it ever since, and the minute my
work was done I come a-flyin' to see."
"You needn't worry no more, Pat. Sure, and I thought when the chance
come for you to go to Mrs. Gineral Brady 'twas because the Lord saw our
need. And that was it, no doubt, but there's more to it, Pat. You went
that I might foind out what koind of a b'y Moike is. You moind what I
told you about permotions, Pat? 'Twas your steppin' up that give Moike
his chance to show what he could do. And Moike was ready for it. Chances
don't do nobody no good that ain't ready for 'em. Andy there is
a-watchin', I know."
The frail little fellow smiled. There was some light on the group,
thrown from the electric light tower, but not enough to show the
wistfulness of the boy's face, and the widow burned no oil in summer.
Privately, Andy was afraid chances would not do him much good.
"Why," continued the widow, "even the little b'ys, Barney and Tommie,
was a-watchin' the other day for chances. 'Twas them that wanted to be
takin' the job of drivin' the cows from Andy and Jim, and leavin' their
geese to do it, too. There's big b'ys, I'm thinkin', that's after cows
when geese would be better suited to 'em."
Barney and Tommie were drowsing, but Jim blushed. He knew that reproof
was meant for him. Mrs. O'Callaghan had been thinking about her fourth
son to-day in the unaccustomed leisure given her by Mike.
"How it is I don't know," she mused, "but he do have a wonderful knack
at rilin' up the little b'ys, and he'd iver be doin' somethin' he can't
do at all. I'll be lookin' into Jim's case. There shan't wan of Tim's
b'ys be sp'iled if I can help it."
"It's time you was goin', ain't it, Pat?" suggested Mike.
At this breach of hospitality the widow was astounded. Mike to speak
like that!
For a second Pat seemed hurt. "I could have stayed half an hour longer,
but I'll go," he said, rising.
"And I'll go with you a ways!" exclaimed Mike, jumping up very promptly.
Pat's farewells were said and the two were off before Mrs. O'Callaghan
had recovered herself enough to remonstrate.
"I wanted to be talkin' to you, Pat, and I didn't want mother to hear.
That kitchen's too hot for her to sleep in, and that's the truth."
"But there ain't no other place," answered Pat anxiously.
"No," returned Mike triumphantly. "There ain't no other place for mother
to sleep, but there is a place we could put the stove, and that's
outside."
"What in?" inquired Pat gloomily.
"What in? In nothin', of course. There's nothin' there. But couldn't we
stick in four poles and put old boards across so's the stove would be
covered, and run the pipe out of a hole in the top?"
"We might," returned Pat, "but you'll have to make up your mind to get
wet a-cookin' more days than one. All the rains don't come straight
down. There's them that drives under. And you'd have to be carrying the
things in through the wet when you got 'em cooked, too."
"And what of that?" asked Mike. "Do you think I care for that? What's me
gettin' wet to makin' mother comfortable? There's July and August comin'
yet, and June only begun."
Pat looked at his brother admiringly, though the semi-darkness did not
permit his expression to be seen.
"We'll do it!" said he. "I'll help you dig the holes for the posts and
all. We'll begin to-morrow evenin'. I know Mrs. Brady will let me come
when my work's done."