J
amieand 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. "Idon'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, thinbroth. 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 emptiedand 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 BillyBaxter 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 theWeekly Budgetand 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 onthe 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.
"'Buyyer own Cherries,' it is, mem."
"That's better," the lady said. "Some peoplegetcherries, other peoplebuythem."
"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. Sonnywanted me to take him bird-nesting. He had the price in the bundle.
"If I give ye thisnow," 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."
W
henAnna 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. Shenever 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 thatworked. 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'scut 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 downon 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' givea 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 ofproviding 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, butsure-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 anundisputedtext?"
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, ofthe 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 therespectabletime 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'mproud 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 whitefigure 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'."