A
nnawas an epistle to Pogue's entry and my only excuse for dragging Hughie Thornton into this narrative is that he was a commentary on Anna. He was only once in our house, but that was an "occasion," and for many years we dated things that happened about that time as "about," "before" or "after" "the night Hughie stayed in the pigsty."
We lived in the social cellar; Hughie led a precarious existence in thesub-cellar. He was the beggar-man of several towns, of which Antrim was the largest. He was a short, thick-set man with a pock-marked face, eyes like a mouse, eyebrowsthat looked like well-worn scrubbing brushes, and a beard cropped close with scissors or a knife. He wore two coats, two pairs of trousers and several waistcoats—all at the same time, winter and summer. His old battered hat looked like a crow's nest. His wardrobe was so elaborately patched that practically nothing at all of the originals remained; even then patches of his old, withered skin could be seen at various angles. The thing that attracted my attention more than anything else about him was his pockets. He had dozens of them and they were always full of bread crusts, scraps of meat and cooking utensils, for like a snail he carried his domicile on his back. His boots looked as if a blacksmith had made them, and for whangs (laces) he used strong wire.
He was preëminently a citizen of the world. He had not lived in a house in half a century. A haystack in summer and a pigsty in winter sufficed him. Hehad a deep graphophone voice and when he spoke the sound was like the creaking of a barn door on rusty hinges. When he came to town he was to us what a circus is to boys of more highly favored communities. There were several interpretations of Hughie. One was that he was a "sent back." That is, he had gone to the gates of a less cumbersome life and Peter or the porter at the other gate had sent him back to perform some unfulfilled task. Another was that he was a nobleman of an ancient line who was wandering over the earth in disguise in search of the Grail. A third, and the most popular one, was that he was just a common beggar and an unmitigated liar. The second interpretation was made more plausible by the fact that he rather enjoyed his reputation as a liar, for wise ones said: "He's jist lettin' on."
On one of his semi-annual visits to Antrim, Hughie got into a barrel of trouble. He was charged—rumor charged him—with having blinked a widow's cow. It was noised abroad that he had been caught in the act of "skellyin'" at her. The story gathered in volume as it went from mouth to mouth until it crystallized as a crime in the minds of half a dozen of our toughest citizens—boys who hankered for excitement as a hungry stomach hankers for food. He was finally rounded up in a field adjoining the Mill Row meeting-house and pelted with stones. I was of the "gallery" that watched the fun. I watched until a track of blood streaked down Hughie's pock-marked face. Then I ran home and told Anna.
"Ma!" I yelled breathlessly, "they're killin' Hughie Thornton!"
Jamie threw his work down and accompanied Anna over the little garden patches to the wall that protected the field. Through the gap they went and found poor Hughie in bad shape. He was crying and he cried like a brass band. His head andface had been cut in several places and his face and clothes were red.
They brought him home. A crowd followed and filled Pogue's entry, a crowd that was about equally divided in sentiment against Hughie and against the toughs.
I borrowed a can of water from Mrs. McGrath and another from the Gainers and Anna washed old Hughie's wounds in Jamie's tub. It was a great operation. Hughie of course refused to divest himself of any clothing, and as she said afterwards it was like "dhressin' th' woonds of a haystack."
One of my older brothers came home and cleared the entry, and we sat down to our stir-about and buttermilk. An extra cup of good hot strong tea was the finishing touch to the Samaritan act. Jamie had scant sympathy with the beggar-man. He had always called him hard names in language not lawful to utter, and even in this critical exigency was not over tender.Anna saw a human need and tried to supply it.
"Did ye blink th' cow?" Jamie asked as we sat around the candle after supper.
"Divil a blink," said Hughie.
"What did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur?" was the next question.
"I was fixin' m' galluses, over Crawford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked over an' says, says he:
"'Morra, Hughie!'
"'Morra, bhoy!' says I.
"'Luks like snow,' says he (it was in July).
"'Aye,' says I, 'we're goin' t' haave more weather; th' sky's in a bad art'" (direction).
Anna arose, put her little Sunday shawl around her shoulders, tightened the strings of her cap under her chin and went out. We gasped with astonishment! What on earth could she be going out for? She never went out at night. Everybody cameto her. There was something so mysterious in that sudden exit that we just looked at our guest without understanding a word he said.
Jamie opened up another line of inquiry.
"Th' say yer a terrible liar, Hughie."
"I am that," Hughie said without the slightest hesitation. "I'm th' champ'yun liar ov County Anthrim."
"How did ye get th' belt?"
"Aisy, as aisy as tellin' th' thruth."
"That's harder nor ye think."
"So's lyin', Jamie!"
"Tell us how ye won th' champ'yunship."
"Whin I finish this dhraw."
He took a live coal and stoked up the bowl of his old cutty-pipe. The smacking of his lips could have been heard at the mouth of Pogue's entry. We waited with breathless interest. When he had finished he knocked the ashes out on the toe of his brogue and talked for nearly an hour ofthe great event in which he covered himself with glory.
It was a fierce encounter according to Hughie, the then champion being a Ballymena man by the name of Jack Rooney. Jack and a bunch of vagabonds sat on a stone pile near Ballyclare when Hughie hove in sight. The beggar-man was at once challenged to divest himself of half his clothes or enter the contest. He entered, with the result that Ballymena lost the championship! The concluding round as Hughie recited it was as follows:
"I dhruv a nail throo th' moon wanst," said Jack.
"Ye did, did ye," said Hughie, "but did ye iver hear ov the maan that climbed up over th' clouds wid a hammer in his han' an' clinched it on th' other side?"
"No," said the champion.
"I'm him!" said Hughie.
"I'm bate!" said Jack Rooney, "an'begobs if I wor St. Peether I'd kape ye outside th' gate till ye tuk it out agin!"
Anna returned with a blanket rolled up under her arm. She gave Hughie his choice between sleeping in Jamie's corner among the lasts or occupying the pigsty. He chose the pigsty, but before he retired I begged Anna to ask him about the Banshee.
"Did ye ever really see a Banshee, Hughie?"
"Is there aanythin' a champ'yun liar haasn't seen?" Jamie interrupted.
"Aye," Hughie said, "'deed there is, he niver seen a maan who'd believe 'im even whin he was tellin' th' thruth!"
"That's broth for your noggin', Jamie," Anna said. Encouraged by Anna, Hughie came back with a thrust that increased Jamie's sympathy for him.
"I'm undther yer roof an' beholdin' t' yer kindness, but I'd like t' ax ye a civil quest'yun if I may be so bowld."
"Aye, go on."
"Did ye blow a farmer's brains out in th' famine fur a pint ov milk?"
"It's a lie!" Jamie said, indignantly.
"Well, me bhoy, there must b' quite a wheen, thrainin' fur me belt in Anthrim!"
"There's something in that, Hughie!"
"Aye, somethin' Hughie Thornton didn't put in it!"
We youngsters were irritated and impatient over what seemed to us useless palaver about minor details. We wanted the story and wanted it at once, for we understood that Hughie went to bed with the crows and we stood in terror lest this huge bundle of pockets with its unearthly voice should vanish into thin air.
"D'ye know McShane?" he asked.
"Aye, middlin'."
"Ax 'im what Hughie Thornton towld 'im wan night be th' hour ov midnight an' afther. Ax 'im, I say, an' he'll swear be th' Holy Virgin an' St. Peether t' it!"
"Jist tell us aanyway, Hughie," Anna urged and the beggar-man proceeded.
"I was be th' oul Quaker graveyard be Moylena wan night whin th' shadows fell an' bein' more tired than most I slipt in an' lay down be th' big wall t' slape. I cros't m'self seven times an' says I—'God rest th' sowls ov all here, an' God prosper th' sowl ov Hughie Thornton.' I wint t' slape an' slept th' slape ov th' just till twelve be th' clock. I was shuk out ov slape be a screech that waked th' dead!
"Och, be th' powers, Jamie, me hair stud like th' brisels on O'Hara's hog. I lukt and what m' eyes lukt upon froze me blood like icicles hingin' frum th' thatch. It was a woman in a white shift, young an' beautiful, wid hair stramin' down her back. She sat on th' wall wid her head in her han's keenin' an' moanin': 'Ochone, ochone!' I thried to spake but m' tongue cluv t' th' roof ov m' mouth. I thried t' move a han' but it wudn't budge. M' legs an'feet wor as stiff and shtrait as th' legs ov thim tongs in yer chimley. Och, but it's th' prackus I was frum top t' toe! Dead intirely was I but fur th' eyes an' th' wit behint thim. She ariz an' walked up an' down, back an' fort', up an' down, back an' fort', keenin' an' cryin' an' wringin' her han's! Maan alive, didn't she carry on terrible! Purty soon wid a yell she lept into the graveyard, thin she lept on th' wall, thin I heerd her on th' road, keenin'; an' iverywhere she wint wor long bars of light like sunbames streamin' throo th' holes in a barn. Th' keenin' become waker an' waker till it died down like the cheep ov a willy-wag-tail far off be the ind ov th' road.
"I got up an' ran like a red shank t' McShane's house. I dundthered at his doore till he opened it, thin I towld him I'd seen th' Banshee!
"'That bates Bannagher!' says he.
"'It bates th' divil,' says I. 'Butwhose fur above th' night is what I'd like t' know.'
"'Oul Misther Chaine,' says he, 'as sure as gun's iron!'"
The narrative stopped abruptly, stopped at McShane's door.
"Did oul Misther Chaine die that night?" Anna asked.
"Ax McShane!" was all the answer he gave and we were sent off to bed.
Hughie was escorted to the pigsty with his blanket and candle. What Jamie saw on the way to the pigsty made the perspiration stand in big beads on his furrowed brow. Silhouetted against the sky were several figures. Some were within a dozen yards, others were farther away. Two sat on a low wall that divided the Adair and Mulholland gardens. They were silent and motionless, but there was no mistake about it. He directed Anna's attention to them and she made light of it. When they returned to the house Jamie expressedfear for the life of the beggar-man. Anna whispered something into his ear, for she knew that we were wide-awake. They went into their room conversing in an undertone.
The thing was so uncanny to me that it was three o'clock next morning before I went to sleep. As early as six there was an unusual shuffling and clattering of feet over the cobblestones in Pogue's entry. We knew everybody in the entry by the sound of their footfall. The clatter was by the feet of strangers.
I "dunched" my brother, who lay beside me, with my elbow.
"Go an' see if oul Hughie's livin' or dead," I said.
"Ye cudn't kill 'im," he said.
"How d'ye know?"
"I heerd a quare story about 'im last night!"
"Where?"
"In th' barber's shop."
"Is he a feerie?"
"No."
"What is he?"
"Close yer thrap an' lie still!"
Somebody opened the door and walked in.
I slid into my clothes and climbed down. It was Withero. He shook Anna and Jamie in their bed and asked in a loud voice:
"What's all this palaver about an' oul throllop what niver earned salt t' 'is pirtas?"
"Go on t' yer stone pile, Willie," Anna said, as she sat up in bed; "what ye don't know will save docther's bills."
"If I catch m'self thinkin' aanythin' sauncy ov that aul haythen baste I'll change m' name!" he said, as he turned and left in high dudgeon.
When I got to the pigsty there were several early callers lounging around. "Jowler" Hainey sat on a big stone near the slit. Mary McConnaughy stood withher arms akimbo, within a yard of the door, and Tommy Wilson was peeping into the sty through a knot-hole on the side. I took my turn at the hole. Hughie had evidently been awakened early. He was sitting arranging his pockets. Con Mulholland came down the entry with his gun over his shoulder. He had just returned from his vigil as night watchman at the Greens and was going the longest way around to his home.
He leaned his gun against the house side and lit his pipe. Then he opened the sty door, softly, and said:
"Morra, Hughie."
"Morra, Con," came the answer, in calliope tones from our guest.
"Haave ye a good stock ov tubacca?" Con asked Hughie.
"I cud shtart a pipe shap, Con, fur be th' first strake ov dawn I found five new pipes an' five half ounces ov tubacca inside th' doore ov th' sty!"
"Take this bit too. Avic, ye don't come ofen," and he gave him a small package and took his departure.
Eliza Conlon brought a cup of tea. Without even looking in, she pushed the little door ajar, laid it just inside, and went away without a word. Mulholland and Hainey seemed supremely concerned about the weather. From all they said it was quite evident that each of them had "jist dhrapped aroun' t' find out what Jamie thought ov th' prospects fur a fine day!" Old Sandy Somerville came hatless and in his shirt-sleeves, his hands deep in his pockets and his big watchchain dangling across what Anna called the "front of his back." Sandy was some quality, too, and owned three houses.
"Did aany o' ye see my big orange cat?" he asked the callers. Without waiting for an answer he opened the door of the pigsty and peeped in.
By the time Hughie scrambled out therewere a dozen men, women and boys around the sty. As the beggar-man struggled up through his freight to his feet the eyes of the crowd were scrutinizing him. Sandy shook hands with him and wished him a pleasant journey.
Hainey hoped he would live long and prosper. As he expressed the hope he furtively stuffed into one of Hughie's pockets a small package.
Anna came out and led Hughie into the house for breakfast. The little crowd moved toward the door. On the doorstep she turned around and said: "Hughie's goin' t' haave a cup an' a slice an' go. Ye can all see him in a few minutes. Excuse me if I shut the doore, but Jamie's givin' the thrush its mornin' bath an' it might fly out."
She gently closed the door and we were again alone with the guest.
"The luck ov God is m' portion here," he said, looking at Anna.
Nothing was more evident. His pockets were taxed to their full capacity and those who gathered around the table that morning wished that the "luck of God" would spread a little.
"Th' feeries must haave been t' see ye," Jamie said, eyeing his pockets.
"Aye, gey sauncy feeries, too!"
"Did ye see aany, Hughie?" Anna asked.
"No, but I had a wondtherful dhrame." The announcement was a disappointment to us. We had dreams of our own and to have right at our fireside the one man in all the world whosawthings and get merely a dream from him was, to say the least, discouraging.
"I thocht I heer'd th' rat, tap; rat, tap, ov th' Lepracaun—th' feerie shoemaker.
"'Is that th' Lepracaun?' says I. 'If it is I want m' three wishes.' 'Get thim out,' says he, 'fur I'm gey busy th' night.'
"'Soun' slape th' night an' safe journey th' morra,' says I.
"'Get yer third out or I'm gone,' says he.
"I scratched m' head an' swithered, but divil a third cud I think ov. Jist as he was goin', 'Oh,' says I, 'I want a pig fur this sty!'
"'Ye'll git him!' says he, an' off he wint."
Here was something, after all, that gave us more excitement than a Banshee story. We had a sty. We had hoped for years for a pig. We had been forced often to use some of the sty for fuel, but in good times Jamie had always replaced the boards. This was a real vision and we were satisfied. Jamie's faith in Hughie soared high at the time, but a few months later it fell to zero. Anna with a twinkle in her eye would remind us of Hughie's prophecy. One day he wiped the vision off the slate.
"T' h—l wi' Hughie!" he said. "Some night he'll come back an' slapethere, thin we'll haave a pig in th' sty shure!"
As he left our house that morning he was greeted in a most unusual manner by a score of people who crowded the entry. Men and women gathered around him. They inspected the wounds. They gave their blessing in as many varieties as there were people present. The new attitude toward the beggar baffled us. Generally he was considered a good deal of a nuisance and something of a fraud, but that morning he was looked upon as a saint—as one inspired, as one capable of bestowing benedictions on the young and giving "luck" to the old. Out of their penury and want they brought gifts of food, tobacco, cloth for patches and needles and thread. He was overwhelmed and over-burdened, and as his mission of gathering food for a few weeks was accomplished, he made for the town head when he left the entry.
The small crowd grew into a big oneand he was the center of a throng as he made his way north. When he reached the town well, Maggie McKinstry had several small children in waiting and Hughie was asked to give them a blessing. It was a new atmosphere to him, but he bungled through it. The more unintelligible his jabbering, the more assured were the recipients of his power to bless. One of the boys who stoned him was brought by his father to ask forgiveness.
"God save ye kindly," Hughie said to him. "Th' woonds ye made haave been turned into blessin's galore!" He came in despised. He went out a saint.
It proved to be Hughie's last visit to Antrim. His going out of life was a mystery, and as the years went by tradition accorded him an exit not unlike that of Moses. I was amongst those the current of whose lives were supposed to have been changed by the touch of his hand on that last visit. Anna alone knew the secret ofhis alleged sainthood. She was the author and publisher of it. That night when she left us with Hughie she gathered together in 'Liza Conlon's a few "hand-picked" people whose minds were as an open book to her. She told them that the beggar-man was of an ancient line, wandering the earth in search of the Holy Grail, but that as he wandered he was recording in a secret book the deeds of the poor. She knew exactly how the news would travel and where. One superstition stoned him and another canonized him.
"Dear," she said to me, many, many years afterwards. "A good thought will thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if it gets th' right start!"
I
t'sa quare world," Jamie said one night as we sat in the glow of a peat fire.
"Aye, 'deed yer right, Jamie," Anna replied as she gazed into the smokeless flames.
He took his short black pipe out of his mouth, spat into the burning sods and added: "I wondther if it's as quare t' everybody, Anna?"
"Ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring."
There had been but one job that day—a pair of McGuckin's boots. They had been half-soled and heeled and my sister hadtaken them home, with orders what to bring home for supper.
The last handful of peat had been put on the fire. The cobbler's bench had been put aside for the night and we gathered closely around the hearth.
The town clock struck eight.
"What th' h—l's kapin' th' hussy!" Jamie said petulantly.
"Hugh's at a Fenian meeting more 'n likely an' it's worth a black eye for th' wife t' handle money when he's gone," Anna suggested.
"More likely he's sleepin' off a dhrunk," he said.
"No, Jamie, he laves that t' the craithers who give 'im a livin'."
"Yer no judge o' human naiture, Anna. A squint out o' th' tail o' yer eye at what McGuckin carries in front ov 'im wud tell ye betther if ye had th' wits to obsarve."
Over the fire hung a pot on the chain and close to the turf coals sat the kettle singing.Nothing of that far-off life has left a more lasting impression than the singing of the kettle. It sang a dirge that night, but it usually sang of hope. It was ever the harbinger of the thing that was most indispensable in that home of want—a cup of tea. Often it was tea without milk, sometimes without sugar, but always tea. If it came to a choice between tea and bread, we went without bread.
Anna did not relish the reflection on her judgment and remained silent.
There was a loud noise at the door.
"Jazus!" Jamie exclaimed, "it's snowin'." Some one was kicking the snow off against the door-post. The latch was lifted and in walked Felix Boyle the bogman.
"What th' blazes are ye in th' dark fur?" Felix asked in a deep, hoarse voice. His old rabbit-skin cap was pulled down over his ears, his head and shoulders were covered with snow. As he shook it off weshivered. We were in debt to Felix for a load of turf and we suspected he had called for the money. Anna lit the candle she was saving for supper-time. The bogman threw his cap and overcoat over in the corner on the lasts and sat down.
"I'm frozen t' death!" he said as he proceeded to take off his brogues. As he came up close to the coals, we were smitten with his foul breath and in consequence gave him a wider berth. He had been drinking.
"Where's th' mare?" Anna asked.
"Gone home, th' bitch o' h—l," he said, "an' she's got m' load o' turf wid 'er, bad cess t' 'er dhirty sowl!"
The town clock struck nine.
Felix removed his socks, pushed his stool aside and sat down on the mud floor. A few minutes later he was flat on his back, fast asleep and snoring loudly.
The fire grew smaller. Anna husbanded the diminishing embers by keeping themclosely together with the long tongs. The wind howled and screamed. The window rattled, the door creaked on its hinges and every few minutes a gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the ashes into our faces. We huddled nearer the fire.
"Can't ye fix up that oul craither's head a bit?" Jamie asked. I brought over the bogman's coat. Anna made a pillow of it and placed it under his head. He turned over on his side. As he did so a handful of small change rolled out of his pocket.
"Think of that now," Jamie said as he gathered it up and stuffed it back where it belonged, "an oul dhrunken turf dhriver wi' money t' waste while we're starvin'."
From that moment we were acutely hungry.
This new incident rendered the condition poignant.
"Maybe Mrs. Boyle an' th' wains are as hungry as we are," Anna remarked.
"Wi' a bogful o' turf at th' doore?"
"Th' can't eat turf, Jamie!"
"Th' can warm their shins, that's more'n we can do, in a minute or two."
The rapidly diminishing coals were arranged once more. They were a mere handful now and the house was cold.
There were two big holes in the chimney where Jamie kept old pipes, pipe cleaners, bits of rags and scraps of tobacco. He liked to hide a scrap or two there and in times of scarcity make himself believe hefoundthem. His last puff of smoke had gone up the chimney hours ago. He searched both holes without success. A bright idea struck him. He searched for Boyle's pipe. He searched in vain.
"Holy Moses!" he exclaimed, "what a breath; a pint ov that wud make a mule dhrunk!"
"Thry it, Jamie," Anna said, laughing.
"Thry it yerself,—yer a good dale more ov a judge!" he said snappishly.
A wild gust of wind came down the chimney and blew the loose ashes off the hearth. Jamie ensconced himself in his corner—a picture of despair.
"I wondther if Billy O'Hare's in bed?" he said.
"Ye'd need fumigatin' afther smokin' Billy's tobacco, Jamie!"
"I'd smoke tobacco scraped out o' the breeches-pocket ov th' oul divil in hell!" he replied.
He arose, put on his muffler and made ready to visit the sweep. On the way to the door another idea turned him back. He put on the bogman's overcoat and rabbit-skin cap. Anna, divining his intention, said:
"That's th' first sign of sense I've see in you for a month of Sundays."
"Ye cudn't see it in a month ov Easther Sundays, aanyway," he retorted with a superior toss of his head.
Anna kept up a rapid fire of witty remarks. She injected humor into the situation and laughed like a girl, and although she felt the pangs more keenly than any of us, her laughter was genuine and natural.
Jamie had his empty pipe in his mouth and by force of habit he picked up in the tongs a little bit of live coal to light it. We all tittered.
"Th' h—l!" he muttered, as he made for the door. Before he reached it my sister walked in. McGuckin wasn't at home. His wife couldn't pay. We saw the whole story on her face, every pang of it. Her eyes were red and swollen. Before she got out a sentence of the tale of woe, she noticed the old man in Boyle's clothing and burst out laughing. So hearty and boisterous was it that we all again caught the contagion and laughed with her. Sorrow was deep-seated. It had its roots away down at the bottom of things, but laughter was always up near the surfaceand could be tapped on the slightest provocation. It was a by-valve—a way of escape for the overflow. There were times when sorrow was too deep for tears. But there never was a time when we couldn't laugh!
People in our town who expected visitors to knock provided a knocker. The knocker was a distinct line of social demarcation. We lived below the line. The minister and the tract distributor were the only persons who ever knocked at our door.
Scarcely had our laughter died away when the door opened and there entered in the sweep of a blizzard's tail Billy O'Hare. The gust of cold winter wind made us shiver again and we drew up closer to the dying fire—so small now as to be seen with difficulty.
"Be th' seven crosses ov Arbow, Jamie," he said, "I'm glad yer awake, me bhoy, if ye hadn't I'd haave pulled ye out be th' tail ov yer shirt!"
"I was jist within an ace ov goin' over an' pullin' ye out be th' heels myself."
The chimney-sweep stepped forward and, tapping Jamie on the forehead, said:
"Two great minds workin' on th' same thought shud projuce wondtherful results, Jamie; lend me a chew ov tobacco!"
"Ye've had larks for supper, Billy; yer jokin'!" Jamie said.
"Larks be damned," Billy said, "m' tongue's stickin' t' th' roof ov me mouth!"
Again we laughed, while the two men stood looking at each other—speechless.
"Ye can do switherin' as easy sittin' as standin'," Anna said, and Billy sat down. The bogman's story was repeated in minutest detail. The sweep scratched his sooty head and looked wise.
"It's gone!" Anna said quietly, and we all looked toward the fire. It was dead. The last spark had been extinguished. We shivered.
"We don't need so many stools aanyway," Jamie said. "I'll get a hatchet an' we'll haave a fire in no time."
"T' be freezin' t' death wi a bogman goin' t' waste is unchristian, t' say th' laste," Billy ventured.
"Every time we get to th' end of th' tether God appears!" Anna said reassuringly, as she pinned her shawl closer around her neck.
"There's nothin' but empty bowels and empty pipes in our house," the sweep said, "but we've got half a dozen good turf left!"
"Well, it's a long lane that's got no turnin'—ye might lend us thim," Jamie suggested.
"If ye'll excuse m' fur a minit, I'll warm this house, an' may the Virgin choke m' in th' nixt chimley I sweep if I don't!"
In a few minutes he returned with six black turf. The fire was rebuilt and we basked in its warm white glow. The bogman snored on. Billy inquired about theamount of his change. Then he became solicitous about his comfort on the floor. Each suggestion was a furtive flank movement on Boyle's loose change.
Anna saw the bent of his mind and tried to divert his attention.
"Did ye ever hear, Billy," she said, "that if we stand a dhrunk maan on his head it sobers him?"
"Be the powers, no."
"They say," she said with a twinkle in her eyes, "that it empties him of his contents."
"Aye," sighed the sweep, "there's something in that, Anna; let's thry it on Boyle."
There was an element of excitement in the suggestion and we youngsters hoped it would be carried out. Billy made a move to suit the action to the thought, but Anna pushed him gently back. "Jamie's mouth is as wathry as yours, Billy, but we'll take no short cuts, we'll go th' long way around."
That seemed a death-blow to hope. My sisters began to whimper and sniffle. We had many devices for diverting hunger. The one always used as a last resort was the stories of the "great famine." We were particularly helped by one about a family half of whom died around a pot of stir-about that had come too late. When we heard Jamie say, "Things are purty bad, but they're not as bad as they might be," we knew a famine story was on the way.
"Hould yer horses there a minute!" Billy O'Hare broke in. He took the step-ladder and before we knew what he was about he had taken a bunch of dried rosemary from the roof-beams and was rubbing it in his hands as a substitute for tobacco.
After rubbing it between his hands he filled his pipe and began to puff vigorously.
"Wud ye luk at 'im!" Jamie exclaimed.
"I've lived with th' mother ov invintionsince I was th' size ov a mushroom," he said between the puffs, "an begorra she's betther nor a wife." The odor filled the house. It was like the sweet incense of a censer. The men laughed and joked over the discovery. The sweep indulged himself in some extravagant, self-laudatory statements, one of which became a household word with us.
"Jamie," he said as he removed his pipe and looked seriously at my father, "who was that poltroon that discovered tobacco?" Anna informed him.
"What'll become ov 'im whin compared wid O'Hare, th' inventor of th' rosemary delection? I ax ye, Jamie, bekase ye're an honest maan."
"Heaven knows, Billy."
"Aye, heaven only knows, fur I'll hand down t' m' future ancestors the O'Hara brand ov rosemary tobacco!"
"Wondtherful, wondtherful!" Jamie said, in mock solemnity.
"Aye, t' think," Anna said, "that ye invinted it in our house!"
We forgot our hunger pangs in the excitement. Jamie filled his pipe and the two men smoked for a few minutes. Then a fly appeared in the precious ointment. My father took his pipe out of his mouth and looked inquisitively at Billy.
"M' head's spinnin' 'round like a peerie!" he exclaimed.
"Whin did ye ate aanything?" asked the sweep.
"Yestherday."
"Aye, well, it's th' mate ye haaven't in yer bowels that's makin' ye feel quare."
"What's th' matther wi th' invintor?" Anna asked.
Billy had removed his pipe and was staring vacantly into space.
"I'm seein' things two at a time, b' Jazus!" he answered.
"We've got plenty of nothin' butwather, maybe ye'd like a good dhrink, Billy?"
Before he could reply the bogman raised himself to a half-sitting posture, and yelled with all the power of his lungs:
"Whoa! back, ye dhirty baste, back!" The wild yell chilled the blood in our veins.
He sat up, looked at the black figure of the sweep for a moment, then made a spring at Billy, and before any one could interfere poor Billy had been felled to the floor with a terrible smash on the jaw. Then he jumped on him. We youngsters raised a howl that awoke the sleepers in Pogue's entry. Jamie and Billy soon overpowered Boyle. When the neighbors arrived they found O'Hare sitting on Boyle's neck and Jamie on his legs.
"Where am I?" Boyle asked.
"In the home of friends," Anna answered.
"Wud th' frien's donate a mouthful ov breath?"
He was let up. The story of the night was told to him. He listened attentively. When the story was told he thrust his hand into his pocket and brought forth some change.
"Hould yer han' out, ye black imp o' hell," he said to O'Hare. The sweep obeyed, but remarked that the town clock had already struck twelve. "I don't care a damn if it's thirteen!" he said. "That's fur bread, that's fur tay, that's fur tobacco an' that's fur somethin' that runs down yer throat like a rasp,fur me. Now don't let th' grass grow undther yer flat feet, ye divil."
After some minor instructions from Anna, the sweep went off on his midnight errand. The neighbors were sent home. The kettle replaced the pot on the chain, and we gathered full of ecstasy close to the fire.
"Whisht!" Anna said. We listened. Above the roar of the wind and the rattlingof the casement we heard a loud noise.
"It's Billy thunderin' at Marget Hurll's doore," Jamie said.
O'Hare arrived with a bang! He put his bundles down on the table and vigorously swung his arms like flails around him to thaw himself out. Anna arranged the table and prepared the meal. Billy and Jamie went at the tobacco. Boyle took the whiskey and said:
"I thank my God an' the holy angels that I'm in th' house ov timperance payple!" Then looking at Jamie, he said:
"Here's t' ye, Jamie, an' ye, Anna, an' th' scoundthrel O'Hare, an' here's t' th' three that niver bred, th' priest, th' pope, an' th' mule!"
Then at a draft he emptied the bottle and threw it behind the fire, grunting his satisfaction.
"Wudn't that make a corpse turn 'round in his coffin?" Billy said.
"Keep yer eye on that loaf, Billy, or he'll be dhrinkin' our health in it!" Jamie remarked humorously.
Boyle stretched himself on the floor and yawned. The little table was brought near the fire, the loaf was cut in slices and divided. It was a scene that brought us to the edge of tears—tears of joy. Anna's face particularly beamed. She talked as she prepared, and her talk was of God's appearance at the end of every tether, and of the silver lining on the edge of every cloud. She had a penchant for mottoes, but she never used them in a siege. It was when the siege was broken she poured them in and they found a welcome. As she spoke of God bringing relief, Boyle got up on his haunches.
"Anna," he said, "if aanybody brot me here th' night it was th' oul divil in hell."
"'Deed yer mistaken, Felix," she answered sweetly. "When God sends amaan aanywhere he always gets there, even if he has to be taken there by th' divil."
When all was ready we gathered around the table. "How I wish we could sing!" she said as she looked at us. The answer was on every face. Hunger would not wait on ceremony. We were awed into stillness and silence, however, when she raised her hand in benediction. We bowed our heads. Boyle crossed himself.
"Father," she said, "we thank Thee for sendin' our friend Felix here th' night. Bless his wife an' wains, bless them in basket an' store an' take good care of his oul mare. Amen!"
I
saton a fence in a potato field, whittling an alder stick into a pea-blower one afternoon in the early autumn when I noticed at the other end of the field the well-known figure of "the master." He was dressed as usual in light gray and as usual rode a fine horse. I dropped off the fence as if I had been shot. He urged the horse to a gallop. I pushed the clumps of red hair under my cap and pressed it down tightly on my head. Then I adjusted the string that served as a suspender. On came the galloping horse. A few more lightning touches to what covered my nakedness and he reined up in front of me! I straightened up like a piece of whalebone!
"What are you doing?" he asked in that far-off imperious voice of his.
"Kapin' th' crows off th' pirtas, yer honor!"
"You need a new shirt!" he said. The blood rushed to my face. I tried to answer, but the attempt seemed to choke me.
"You need a new shirt!" he almost yelled at me. I saw a smile playing about the corners of his fine large eyes. It gave me courage.
"Aye, yer honor, 'deed that's thrue."
"Why don't you get one?" The answer left my mind and traveled like a flash to the glottis, but that part of the machinery was out of order and the answer hung fire. I paused, drew a long breath that strained the string. Then matching his thin smile with a thick grin I replied:
"Did yer honor iver work fur four shillin's a week and share it wid nine others?"
"No!" he said and the imprisoned smile was released.
"Well, if ye iver do, shure ye'll be lucky to haave skin, let alone shirt!"
"You consider yourself lucky, then?"
"Aye, middlin'."
He galloped away and I lay down flat on my back, wiped the sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my jacket, turned the hair loose and eased up the string.
That night at the first sound of the farm-yard bell I took to my heels through the fields, through the yard and down the Belfast road to Withero's stone-pile. Willie was just quitting for the day. I was almost breathless, but I blurted out what then seemed to me the most important happening in my life.
Willie took his eye-protectors off and looked at me.
"So ye had a crack wi' the masther, did ye?"
"Aye, quite a crack."
"He mistuk ye fur a horse!" he said. This damper on my enthusiasm drew an instant reply.
"'Deed no, nor an ass naither."
Willie bundled up his hammers and prepared to go home. He took out his flint and steel. Over the flint he laid a piece of brown paper, chemically treated, then he struck the flint a sharp blow with the steel, a spark was produced, the spark ignited the paper, it began to burn in a smoldering, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into the bowl of his pipe, and began the smoke that was to carry him over the journey home. I shouldered some of his hammers and we trudged along the road toward Antrim.
"Throth, I know yer no ass, me bhoy, though Jamie's a good dale ov a mule, but yer Ma's got wit enough fur the family. That answer ye gave Misther Chaine was frum yer Ma. It was gey cute an'll git ye a job, I'll bate."
I had something else to tell him, but I dreaded his critical mind. When we got to the railway bridge he laid his hammers on the wall while he relit his pipe. I saw my last opportunity and seized it.
"Say, Willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' that made ye feel fine all over and—and—made ye pray?"
"I niver pray," he said. "These wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air jist like oul Hughie Thornton wi' his pockets bulgin' wi' scroof (crusts). They're naggin at God from Aysther t' Christmas t' fill their pockets! A good day's stone breakin's my prayer. At night I jist say, 'Thank ye, Father!' In th' mornin' I say 'Morra, Father, how's all up aroun' th' throne this mornin'?'"
"An' does He spake t' ye back?"
"Ov coorse, d'ye think He's got worse manners nor me? He says, 'Hello, Willie,' says He. 'How's it wi' ye this fine mornin'?' 'Purty fine, Father, purtyfine,' says I. But tell me, bhoy, was there a girl aroun' whin that feelin' struck ye?"
"Divil a girl, at all!"
"Them feelin's sometimes comes frum a girl, ye know. I had wan wanst, but that's a long story, heigh ho; aye, that's a long story!"
"Did she die, Willie?"
"Never mind her. That feelin' may haave been from God. Yer Ma hes a quare notion that wan chile o' her'n will be inclined that way. She's dhrawn eleven blanks, maybe she's dhrawn a prize, afther all; who knows."
Old McCabe, the road mender, overtook us and for the rest of the journey I was seen but not heard.
That night I sat by her side in the chimney-corner and recited the events of the day. It had been full of magic, mystery and meaning to me. The meaning was a little clearer to me after the recital.
"Withero sometimes talks like a ha'penny book wi' no laves in it," she said. "But most of the time he's nearer the facts than most of us. It isn't all blether, dear."
We sat up late, long after the others had gone to sleep. She read softly a chapter of "Pilgrim's Progress," the chapter in which he is relieved of his burden. I see now that woodcut of a gate and over the gate the words: "Knock and it shall be opened unto you." She had read it before. I was familiar with it, but in the light of that day's experience it had a new meaning. She warned me, however, that my name was neither Pilgrim nor Withero, and in elucidating her meaning she explained the phrase, "The wind bloweth where it listeth." I learned to listen for the sound thereof and I wondered from whence it came, not only the wind of the heavens, but the spirit that moved men in so many directions.
The last act of that memorable nightwas the making of a picture. It took many years to find out its meaning, but every stroke of the brush is as plain to me now as they were then.
"Ye'll do somethin' for me?"
"Aye, aanything in th' world."
"Ye won't glunch nor ask questions?"
"Not a question."
"Shut yer eyes an' stan' close t' th' table." I obeyed. She put into each hand a smooth stick with which Jamie had smoothed the soles of shoes.
"Jist for th' now these are the handles of a plow. Keep yer eyes shut tight. Ye've seen a maan plowin' a field?"
"Aye."
"Think that ye see a long, long field. Ye're plowin' it. The other end is so far away ye can't see it. Ye see a wee bit of the furrow, jist a wee bit. Squeeze th' plow handles." I squeezed.
"D'ye see th' trees yonder?"
"Aye."
"An' th' birds pickin' in th' furrow?"
"Ay-e."
She took the sticks away and gently pushed me on a stool and told me I might open my eyes.
"That's quare," I said.
"Listen, dear, ye've put yer han' t' th' plow; ye must niver, niver take it away. All through life ye'll haave thim plow handles in yer han's an' ye'll be goin' down th' furrow. Ye'll crack a stone here and there, th' plow'll stick often an' things'll be out of gear, but yer in th' furrow all the time. Ye'll change horses, ye'll change clothes, ye'll change yerself, but ye'll always be in the furrow, plowin', plowin', plowin'! I'll go a bit of th' way, Jamie'll go a bit, yer brothers an' sisters a bit, but we'll dhrap out wan b' wan. Ye're God's plowmaan."
As I stood to say good-night she put her hand on my head and muttered something that was not intended for me to hear.Then she kissed me good night and I climbed to my pallet under the thatch.
I was afraid to sleep, lest the "feelin'" should take wings. When I was convinced that some of it, at least, would remain, I tried to sleep and couldn't. The mingled ecstasy and excitement was too intense. I heard the town clock strike the hours far into the morning.
Before she awoke next morning I had exhausted every agency in the house that would coördinate flesh and spirit. When I was ready I tiptoed to her bedside and touched her on the cheek. Instantly she awoke and sat upright. I put my hands on my hips and danced before her. It was a noiseless dance with bare feet on the mud floor.
Her long thin arms shot out toward me and I buried myself in them. "So it stayed," she whispered in my ear.
"Aye, an' there's more of it."
She arose and dressed quickly. A livecoal was scraped out of the ashes and a turf fire built around it. My feet were winged as I flew to the town well for water. When I returned she had several slices of toast ready. Toast was a luxury. Of course there was always—or nearly always—bread, and often there was butter, but toast to the very poor in those days wasn't merely a matter of bread and butter, fire and time! It was more often inclination that turned the balance for or against it, and inclination always came on the back of some emotion, chance or circumstance. Here all the elements met and the result was toast.
I took a mouthful of her tea out of her cup; she reciprocated. We were like children. Maybe we were. Love tipped our tongues, winged our feet, opened our hearts and hands and permeated every thought and act. She stood at the mouth of the entry until I disappeared at the town head. While I was yet within sight I looked back half a dozen times and we waved our hands.
It was nearly a year before a dark line entered this spiritual spectrum. It was inevitable that such a mental condition—ever in search of a larger expression—should gravitate toward the Church. It has seemed also that it was just as inevitable that the best thought of which the Church has been the custodian should be crystallized into a creed. I was promoted to the "big house." There, of course, I was overhauled and put in touch with the fittings and furniture. As a flunkey I had my first dose of boiled linen and I liked it.
I was enabled now to attend church and Sunday School. Indeed, I would have gone there, religion or no religion, for where else could I have sported a white shirt and collar? With my boiled linen and my brain stuffed with texts I gradually drew away from the chimney-corner and never again did I help Willie Withero to carry his hammers. Ah, if one could only go back over life and correct the mistakes.
Gradually I lost the warm human feeling and substituted for it a theology. I began to look upon my mother as one about whose salvation there was some doubt. I urged her to attend church. Forms and ceremonies became the all-important things and the life and the spirit were proportionately unimportant. I became mildewed with the blight of respectability. I became the possessor of a hard hat that I might ape the respectables. I walked home every night from Ballycraigie with Jamie Wallace, and Jamie was the best-dressed working man in the town. I was treading a well-worn pathway. I was "getting on." A good slice of my new religion consisted in excellency of service to my employers—my "betters." Preacher, priest and peasant thought alike on these topics. Anna was pleased to see me in a new garb, but she noticed and I noticed that I had grown away from the corner. In the light of my new adjustment I sawdutiesplainer,but duty may become a hammer by which affection may be beaten to death.
I imagined the plow was going nicely in the furrow, for I wasn't conscious of striking any snags or stones, but Anna said:
"A plowman who skims th' surface of th' sod strikes no stones, dear, but it's because he isn't plowin'deep!"
I have plowed deep enough since, but too late to go back and compare notes.
She was pained, but tried to hide it. If she was on the point of tears she would tell a funny story.
"Acushla," she said to me one night after a theological discussion, "sure ye remind me of a ducklin' hatched by a hen."
"Why?"
"We're at home in conthrary elements. Ye use texts t' fight with an' I use thim to get pace of heart!"
"Are you wiser nor Mr. Holmes, an' William Brennan an' Miss McGee?" Iasked. "Them's th' ones that think as I do—I mane I think as they do!"
"No, 'deed I'm not as wise as aany of thim, but standin' outside a wee bit I can see things that can't be seen inside. Forby they haave no special pathway t' God that's shut t' me, nor yer oul father nor Willie Withero!"
Sometimes Jamie took a hand. Once when he thought Anna was going to cry, in an argument, he wheeled around in his seat and delivered himself.
"I'll tell ye, Anna, that whelp needs a good argyment wi' th' tongs! Jist take thim an' hit 'im a skite on the jaw wi' thim an' I'll say, 'Amen.'"
"That's no clinch to an argyment," I said, "an thruth is thruth!"
"Aye, an' tongs is tongs! An' some o' ye young upstarts whin ye get a dickey on an' a choke-me-tight collar think yer jist ready t' sit down t' tay wi' God!"
Anna explained and gave me morecredit than was due me. So Jamie ended the colloquy by the usual cap to his every climax.
"Well, what th' —— do I know about thim things, aanyway. Let's haave a good cup o' tay an' say no more about it!"
The more texts I knew the more fanatical I became. And the more of a fanatic I was the wider grew the chasm that divided me from my mother. I talked as if I knew "every saint in heaven and every divil in hell."
She was more than patient with me, though my spiritual conceit must have given her many a pang. Antrim was just beginning to get accustomed to my new habiliments of boots, boiled linen and hat when I left to "push my fortune" in other parts. My enthusiasm had its good qualities too, and she was quick to recognize them, quicker than to notice its blemishes. My last hours in the town—on the eve of my first departure—I spent with her. "Ifeel about you, dear," she said, laughing, "as Micky Free did about the soul of his father in Purgatory. He had been payin' for masses for what seemed to him an uncommonly long time. 'How's th' oul bhoy gettin' on?' Micky asked the priest. 'Purty well, Micky, his head is out.' 'Begorra, thin, I know th' rist ov 'im will be out soon—I'll pay for no more masses!' Your head is up and out from the bottom of th' world, and I haave faith that ye'll purty soon be all out, an' some day ye'll get the larger view, for ye'll be in a larger place an' ye'll haave seen more of people an' more of the world."
I have two letters of that period. One I wrote her from Jerusalem in the year 1884. As I read the yellow, childish epistle I am stung with remorse that it is full of the narrow sectarianism that still held me in its grip. The other is dated Antrim, July, 1884, and is her answer to my sectarian appeal.
"Dear boy," she says, "Antrim has had many soldier sons in far-off lands, but you are the first, I think, to have the privilege of visiting the Holy Land. Jamie and I are proud of you. All the old friends have read your letter. They can hardly believe it. Don't worry about our souls. When we come one by one in the twilight of life, each of us, Jamie and I, will have our sheaves. They will be little ones, but we are little people. I want no glory here or hereafter that Jamie cannot share. I gave God a plowman, but your father says I must chalk half of that to his account. Hold tight the handles and plow deep. We watch the candle and every wee spark thrills our hearts, for we know it's a letter from you.
"Your loving mother."