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."