[Illustration: Barney and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese.]
[Illustration: Barney and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese.]
Then her thought turned to the finances of the family. "And how much is sixteen and fifteen?" she asked. "Sure, and it's thirty-wan. Thirty-wan dollars a month for us this winter, and Moike takin' care of himself, to say nothin' of what Moike has earned with the lawn mower. 'Blessin's on the man that invented it,' says I, 'and put folks in the notion of havin' their lawns kept neat, 'cause they could do it cheap.' And there's what Andy and Jim has made a-drivin' the cows, and Barney and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese. Wennott's the town for them as can work. And bad luck to lazy bones anyway. It's thankful I am I've got none of 'em in my family."
She paused a moment in reflection.
"Them geese now is foine. Do you think, Pat, the Gineral and Mrs. Brady would enjoy eatin' wan of 'em when it's a bit cooler? You knows what they loikes by this time."
"I think they would, mother."
"Then it's the best of the lot they shall have. Bad luck to them that's always a-takin' and niver wantin' to be givin' back."
The fall term opened and found Mike the head of the O'Callaghan tribe, as the brothers had been jeeringly called by the Jim Barrows set. And Mike was a good head. The sort of boy to impress others with the good sense of minding their own business. His blue eyes had a determined look, as he came on the campus the first morning of the new term, that made his old persecutors think it best to withhold such choice epithets as "Biddy," "Kitchen Girl," and "Scrub Maid," which they had laid up for him. For they knew that it was Mike who now did housework at General Brady's. They had never seen Mike fight. He had always stood back and let Pat lead. But there was something in his erect and independent bearing on this autumn morning that made it very evident to the school bullies that if Mike did not fight it was not because he could not.
"Them O'Callaghans think they're some since General Brady picked 'em up," commented Jim Barrows, safely out of Mike's hearing.
"General Brady had never heard of them when Pat gave you a licking, Jim, or don't you remember?" asked Bob Farnham, who was passing.
"Say, Jim," advised a crony, as the two sauntered off together, "we'd better let them O'Callaghans alone. I don't like the looks of that Mike. 'Twasn't any wonder that Pat licked you, for you're not much on the fight anyway. But I tell you, I wouldn't like to tackle that Mike myself. He's one of them pleasant kind that's a regular tiger when you stir him up."
"He's been runnin' lawn mowers all summer," observed Jim reflectively. "I reckon he's got his muscle up. Don't know but we had best leave him alone."
"Let me tell you, Jim, 'twon't do just to let him alone. We've got to let 'em all alone—Andy and Jim and Barney and Tommie—or he'll light into us same as Pat did into you."
"Why can't a fellow do just his own fightin'," grumbled Jim Barrows, "and let the kids look out for themselves?"
"Some of 'em can, but the O'Callaghans ain't that kind. Touch one, touch 'em all, as you'd ought to know, Jim."
"Oh, shut up! You needn't be throwin' up that lickin' to me every minute. I was surprised, I tell you. Astonished, as I might say. I wasn't lookin' to be pitched into by a low down Irish boy."
"Oh, wasn't you?" queried his friend ironically. "Well, you keep on a-hectorin', and you'll be surprised again, or astonished, as you might say. That's all."
Jim Barrows had not looked into Mike's eye for nothing. He knew for himself the truth of all his companion had been saying, and from that hour the little boys had peace.
That same Monday was the most exciting and important day of his life to Pat. He saw other clerks lagging along without interest, and he wondered at them. Hitherto, in all transactions, he had been a buyer. Now he was to sell.
Farnham's store was on the west side of the square—a fair-sized room—but rather dark, and not the best place in the world to display goods. It was not even the best place in Wennott, the storerooms of both Wall and Arnold being newer and better fitted. But displaying goods was not Pat's affair that morning. It was his part to display a clean floor and well-dusted shelves and counters to the first customer.
Mr. Farnham came in at the hour when he had usually found his other boy through with the sweeping and dusting, and Pat was still using the broom. His employer, seeing the skillful strokes of the broom, wondered. But he was soon enlightened. Pat was not giving the middle of the floor a brush out. He was sweeping thoroughly into every corner where a broom could find entrance. For Pat knew nothing of "brush outs," though he knew all about clean floors. Every little while he stopped, swept up his collection into the dust-pan and carried it to a waste box in the back of the store. Mr. Farnham watched his movements. "He's business," he commented to himself. "Neither hurry nor lag."
At last Pat was through. One of the clerks came in, and she stared to see the shelves still wearing their dust curtains. But Pat was unconcerned. He had never opened a store before, nor seen one opened. He had been told to sweep out and dust, and he was obeying orders. That was all he was thinking about.
The sweeping done, Pat waited for the little dust that was flying to settle. Then he walked to the front end of the store and began to unhook the dust curtains. Very gingerly he took hold of them, being careful to disturb them as little as possible. Mr. Farnham and the girl clerk watched him. Every other boy had jerked them down and chucked them under the counter in a jiffy. Out went Pat with them to the rear door, gave them a vigorous shaking, brought them back, folded them quickly and neatly, and then, turning to Mr. Farnham said, "Where will you have 'em, sir?"
In silence Mr. Farnham pointed out a place, and then handed him a feather duster, showing him, at the same time, how to fleck the dust off the edges of the bolts of goods along the shelves, and also off the counter.
"This thing's no good for the glass show cases, sir. I'd ought to have a soft cloth. Something to take the dust up with, sir."
The merchant turned to the girl clerk. "Cut him off a square of cheesecloth, Miss Emlin, please," he said.
[Illustration: The merchant turned to the girl clerk.]
[Illustration: The merchant turned to the girl clerk.]
"Ordinary boy!" exclaimed Mr. Farnham to himself and thinking of the General. "I should say he wasn't. But cleaning up a store and selling goods are two different things."
It was a very small place that was given to Pat in the store that day—just the calicoes, ginghams, and muslins. And Pat was dissatisfied.
"'Tisn't much of a chance I've got," he murmured to himself. "Gingham—that's for aprons, and calico—that's for dresses, and muslin—that's for a lot of things. Maybe I'll sell something. But it looks as if I'd be doin' nothin', that's what it does."
He thought of the home folks and how his mother's mind would be ever upon him during this his first important day. "Maybe I'm a bit like little Jim—wantin' to do what I can't do. Maybe geese are my size," and he smiled. "Well, then I'll tend to my geese and tend 'em good, so I will."
He began emptying his calico tables upon the counter. Mr. Farnham saw him from the desk, and walked that way at once. "What's the matter, Pat?" he inquired.
"Sure I'm just gettin' acquainted with the goods, sir. I was thinkin' I could sell better, if I knew what I'd got. I'll put 'em back, sir, when I've looked 'em over."
And entirely satisfied with his newest clerk, though Pat did not suspect it, Mr. Farnham returned to his writing.
Pat had often noticed and admired the way in which the dry goods clerks ran off a length of goods, gathered it in folds, and held it up before the customer.
"If I thought nobody was lookin', I'd try it, so I would," he said to himself.
He glanced around. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention. Pat tried it, and a funny affair he made of it. Mr. Farnham, who was only apparently busy, had to exert all his will power to keep back a smile. For Pat, with the fear of observers before his eyes, unrolled the web with a softness that was almost sneaking; he held up the length with a trembling hand and a reddening cheek; and, putting his head on one side, regarded his imaginary customer with a shamefaced air that was most amusing.
Pat seemed to feel that he had made himself ridiculous. He sighed. "There's too much style to it for me yet," he said. "I'll just have to sell 'em plain goods without any flourishes. But I'll do it yet, so I will, only I'll practice it at home."
"And what did you be sellin' to-day, Pat dear?" asked his mother when at half-past nine he entered the kitchen door. She would not ask him at supper time. She wished to hear the sum total of the day's sales at once, and she had prepared her mind for a long list of articles.
"Well, mother," answered Pat drawing a long breath, "I sold two yards and a half of gingham."
The widow nodded. But Pat did not go on.
"And what else, Pat dear?"
"Nothin' else, mother."
Mrs. O'Callaghan looked astonished.
[Illustration: Mrs. O'Callaghan looked astonished.]
[Illustration: Mrs. O'Callaghan looked astonished.]
"That's little to be sellin' in a whole day," she observed. "Didn't you sell no silks and velvets and laces?"
"I'm not to sell them, mother."
"And why not?" with a mystified air.
"Sure and I don't know. I've just the calicoes and the ginghams and the muslins."
"Ah!" breathed the widow. And she sat silent in thought a while. The small lamp on the pine table burned brightly, and it lit up Pat's face so that with every glance his mother cast at him she read there the discouragement he felt.
"Pat dear," she began presently, "there's beginnin's in all things. And the beginnin's is either at the bottom or at wan ind, depindin' which way you're to go. Roads has their beginnin's at wan ind and runs on, round corners, maybe, to the other ind. Permotions begin at the bottom. You moind I was tellin' you 'twas loikely there was permotions in stores?"
Pat gazed at his mother eagerly. "Do you think so, mother?"
"I think so. Else why should they put the last hand in to sweepin' out and sellin' naught but ginghams and calicoes and muslins? And will you be tellin' me what the b'y that swept out before you is sellin'?" continued the little woman, anxious to prove the truth of her opinion.
"Sure and he ain't sellin' nothin'," responded the son. "He ain't there."
"And why not?" interrogated Mrs. O'Callaghan.
"I'm told he didn't do his work good."
Mrs. O'Callaghan looked grave. "Well," she said, "there's a lesson for them that needs it. There's gettin' out of stores as well as gettin' in, so there is. And now, Pat, cheer up. 'Tis loikely sellin' things is a business that's got to be larned the same as any other."
"Well, but, mother, I know every piece I've got, and the price of it."
"Can you measure 'em off handy and careless loike, so that a body wonders if you ain't makin' a mistake, and measures 'em over after you when they gets home, and then foinds it's all roight and trusts you the nixt toime?"
Pat was obliged to admit that he could not.
"And can you tie up a bundle quick and slick and make it look neat?"
Again Pat had to acknowledge his deficiency.
His mother regarded him with an air of triumph. "I knowed I could put my finger on the trouble if I thought about it. You've got it in you to sell, else Mr. Farnham wouldn't have asked for you. But he wants you for what you can do after a while more than for what you can do now. Remimber your beds and your cookin', Pat, and don't be bakin' beans by your own receipt down there to the store. It's a foine chance you've got, so 'tis. Maybe you'll be sellin' more to-morrow. And another thing, do you belave you've got jist as good calicoes and ginghams and muslins to sell as there is in town?"
"Yes, mother, I know I have."
"Then you've got to make the ladies belave it, too. And it won't be such a hard job, nayther, if you do your best. If they don't like wan thing, show 'em another. There's them among 'em as is hard to plaze, and remimber you don't know much about the ladies anyhow, havin' had to do only with your mother and Mrs. Gineral Brady. And there's different sorts of ladies, too, so there is, as you'll foind. It's a smart man as can plaze the half of 'em, but you'll come to it in time, if you try. Your father had a great knack at plazin' people, so he had, Pat. For folks mostly loikes them that will take pains for 'em; and your father was always obligin'. And you are, too, Pat, but kape on at it. Folks ain't a-goin' to buy nothin', if they can help it, from a clerk that ain't obligin'. Sellin' goods is pretty much loike doin' housework, you'll foind, only it's different."
"Pat," said his mother the next morning at breakfast, "what's that book you used to be studyin' that larns you to talk roight?"
"Grammar, mother."
"Well, then, your studyin' has done you small good, for you talk pretty much the way I do mysilf, and niver a bit of that book did I be larnin' in my loife. It don't make a bit of difference what you know, if you don't go anddowhat you know. But you're not too old to begin over again, Pat, and practice talkin' roight. Roight talkin' will help you in the store. You've got in, and that's only half of it, for you'll not stay in if you don't do your best. And that's why helpin' a body don't do so much good after all."
Pat blushed, and the widow felt a little compassion. She threw increased confidence into her tone as she went on. "Not as anybody thinks you won't stay, Pat, for, of course, you'll do your best. But about your talkin'—you'll need somebody to watch you close, and somebody that loves you well enough to tell you your mistakes koindly, and Andy's the b'y to do it. He's the wan among you all that talks roight, for he loves his book, do you moind."
And now it was Andy's turn to blush, while the widow smiled upon him. "I hear a many of them grammar folks talk," she said, "and it's mysilf that sees you talk jist loike 'em, barrin' the toimes when you don't. And them's not so many, nayther."
At this little Jim scowled scornfully, but of him his mother took no notice as she looked around with pride upon her sons.
"And it's proud I am to be havin' all sorts of b'ys in my family, barrin' bad wans," she continued. "I'll jist be tryin' to larn a little better ways of talkin' mysilf, so I will, not as I think there's much chance for me, and, as there's no good of waitin' till you get as old as Pat, Jim, you'll be takin' heed to Andy's talkin'. Andy's the talker as would have plazed his father, for his father loiked everything done roight, so he did."
It was pleasant to see Andy's sensitive face glow with delight at being thus publicly commended by that potentate of the family, his mother. Mrs. O'Callaghan saw it. "And did you think I wasn't noticin' because I didn't say nothin'?" she asked him.
Then turning to the rest, "B'ys, you mostly niver knows what folks is a-noticin' by what they says—that is, to your face—but you sometoimes foinds out by hearin' what they've been sayin' behoind your back. And, by the same token, it's mostly bad they says behoind your back."
"I don't want to be larnin' from Andy," interrupted Jim. "He's but two years older than me anyway."
The widow eyed him severely. "Well, Jim, is it bigger and older than Pat you are? Pat's goin' to larn from Andy. And is it older than your mother you are, that's forty years old? Sure I'm goin' to larn from Andy."
But Jim still appeared rebellious.
"Some of these days little Barney and Tommie and Larry will be set to larn from you. Take care they're not set to larn what not to do from lookin' at you. 'Tis Andy that's got the gift ne'er a wan of us has, and he'll show us how to profit by it, if we has sinse. It's thinkin' I am your father, if he was here, would not have been above touchin' up his own talkin' a bit under Andy's teachin'. Your father was for larnin' all he could, no matter who from, old or young."
Now the widow might have talked long to Jim without affecting him much, but for one thing. She had said that Andy had a gift that all the rest lacked. He resolved from that moment that he would talk better than Andy yet, or know why.
A pretty big resolve for so young a boy, but Jim could not endure to yield the supremacy to Andy in anything. Pat and Mike he was content to look up to, but Andy was too near his own age, and too small and frail to challenge Jim's respect.
That morning Jim said little, but his ears were open. Every sentence that Andy spoke was carefully listened to, but the little fellow went to school not much enlightened. He could see the difference between his speech and Andy's, but he could not see what made the difference. And ask Andy he wouldn't.
"I'll be askin' the teacher, so I will," he thought.
That morning at recess, a small, red-headed, belligerent-looking boy, with a pair of mischievous blue eyes, went up to Miss Slocum's desk. But the eyes were not mischievous now. They were very earnest as they gazed up into his teacher's face.
"Plaze, ma'am, will you be sayin': I'll be larnin' it yet, so I will?"
Miss Slocum was surprised. "What did you say, Jim?" she asked.
"Plaze, ma'am, will you say: I'll be larnin' it yet, so I will?"
Miss Slocum smiled, and obligingly repeated, "I'll be larnin' it yet, so I will."
"No," said Jim. "That's the way I said it. Say it right."
"Say it right!" exclaimed Miss Slocum.
"Yes, say it like the grammar book."
"Oh," said Miss Slocum wonderingly. "Iwilllearn it yet. Is that what you wanted?"
"Yes, ma'am. Will you be tellin' me some more when I want to know it?"
"Certainly," responded the gratified teacher, whereat Jim went away satisfied. He smiled to himself knowingly, as he caught sight of Andy at a distance on the campus. "I'll not be askin' him nayther," he said. "Iwilllearn it yet."
As for Pat, he went to the store that same morning a trifle disconsolate. He was fond of trade, but he knew almost nothing of dry goods; and here was his mother counseling him to improve his speech, and holding up to him the warning that his own inefficiency might lose him his place.
"Well, I know how to sweep and dust, anyway," he thought as he unlocked the store door, went in and took up his broom. As thoroughly as before he went over everything, but much more quickly, not having the accumulated shiftlessness of former boys to contend with. And Mr. Farnham, on his arrival, found everything spotless.
Customers at Pat's department that day found a very silent clerk, but one eager to oblige. Many times before he went home for the night did he display every piece of goods in his charge, and that with such an evident wish to please, that his sales were considerable. And the widow heard his report at bedtime with something like satisfaction.
"And what did you say to make 'em buy?" she inquired.
"Well, mother, I mostly didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say, and I couldn't say it right, neither, and so I just watched, and if they so much as turned their eyes on a piece, I got it out of the pile and showed it to 'em. I just wished with all my might to sell to 'em, and I sold to 'em."
His mother's eyes were fixed on him, and she nodded her head approvingly. "Sure and if you couldn't do no better, that was good enough, so 'twas," was her comment. "You'll larn. But didn't nobody say nothin' to you?"
"They did, mother, of course."
"And who was they that spoke to you and what about?"
"Well, mother, there was old Mrs. Barter, for one. She's awful stingy. I've seen her more than once in the groceries. Always a-wantin' everything a little lower, and grumblin' because the quality wasn't good. Them grocers' clerks mostly hates her, I believe. And they don't want to wait on her, none of 'em. 'Twas her, I'm told, washed up two or three of them wooden butter dishes and took 'em up and wanted to sell 'em back to them she got her butter from."
"Ah!" said Mrs. O'Callaghan, with her eyes sympathetically upon her son.
"And she was to buy of you to-day, was she?"
"Yes, mother."
"And did she buy anything?"
"She did."
"What was it?"
"A calico dress."
"And how come she to do it?"
"I don't know. She begun by lookin' everything over and runnin' everything down. And at last she took hold of a piece, and says she, 'Come, young man, I've seen you a-buyin' more than once. Can you tell me this is a good piece that won't fade?' 'I can, ma'am,' says I. 'You won't find no better in town.'
"'Ah! but you're sellin',' says she. 'Would you tell your mother the same?' And she looked at me sharp.
"'I would, ma'am,' says I.
"'Then I'll take it,' says she. 'I've not watched you for nothin'.'"
"And then what?" asked Mrs. O'Callaghan eagerly. This, in her opinion, was a triumph for Pat.
"Why, nothin', mother, only I wrapped it up and give it to her, and I says, Come again, ma'am,' and she says, 'I will, young man, you may depend.'"
The little woman regarded him proudly. But all she said was: "When you're doin' well, Pat, the thing is to see if you can't do better. You had others a-buyin' of you to-day, I hope?"
"Yes, mother."
"'Tis too late to hear about it to-night, for 'tis good sleep that sharpens the wits. And the broightest wits will bear that koind of sharpening', so they will. I wouldn't be knowin' what to do half the time if it wasn't for sleepin' good of nights. And, by the same token, if any of them high-steppin' clerks comes around with a cigar and a-wantin' you to go here and yon of nights, jist remimber that your wits is your stock in trade, and Mr. Farnham's not wantin' dull wans about him, nayther."
Thus having headed off any designs that might be had upon Pat, his mother went to sharpen her own wits for whatever the morrow might have in store for her.
And now a change began to come over Jim. He left his younger brothers in unhectored peace. He had not much to say, but ever he watched Andy from the corner of a jealous eye, and listened for him to speak. All his pugnacity was engaged in what seemed to be a profitless struggle with the speech of the grammar. "Iwilllarn it yet," he repeated over and over. And even while the words were in his mouth, if he had had less obstinacy in his make-up, he would have yielded himself to despair. But a good thing happened to him. Miss Slocum, not knowing his ignoble motive, and seeing a very earnest child striving to improve himself, set about helping him in every possible way.
One day she called him to her. "Jim," she said, "asking me questions is slow work. Suppose I correct you every time you make a mistake?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Jim vaguely, not knowing the meaning ofcorrect.
"You don't understand me?"
"No, ma'am."
"Correctmeans to make right. Suppose I set you right whenever you go wrong?"
"That's it!" cried Jim enthusiastically. "That's it! I can larn that way sure."
"Learn, notlarn, Jim."
Jim looked at her. "'Tis learn and not larn I'll be sayin'," he declared.
"NotI'll be sayin'," corrected Miss Slocum, "butI'll say."
"Learn, notlarn, andI'll say, notI'll be sayin'," amended the obedient Jim, and then he sped away.
And that night he did what never a child of Mrs. O'Callaghan's had done before. The family were at supper. Pat, paying good heed to his tongue, was manifestly improving, and the widow was congratulating him in her own way.
"What did I be sayin' to you, Pat dear? Did I be tellin' you you wasn't too old to larn? And I'll be sayin' it again, so I will."
"Larn'snot the right of it," interrupted Jim. "Learn'swhat you ought to be sayin'.I'll be sayin'ain't right, nayther," he continued. "It'sI'll say," and he looked very important.
Pat and Andy regarded him in displeased astonishment, but the widow could take care of her own.
"And it's glad I am to see that you know so much, Jim," she said quietly. "What more do you know? Let's hear it."
Thus brought to book Jim grew confused. He blushed and stammered under the unfavorable regard of his mother and two older brothers, and finally confessed that he knew nothing more. At which Barney and Tommie nudged each other. They did not understand what all the talk was about, but they could see that Jim was very red in the face, and not at all at his ease, and their beforetime hectored little selves rejoiced.
"B'ys," said the mother, "I told you if your blessed father was here he'd not be above learning from any one, old or young. And he wouldn't, nayther. And sure he saidlarnhimsilf. And from Jim here he'd learn better than that, and he'd learn, too, how them that knows very little is the quickest to make a show of it. But kape on, Jim. It's glad I am you know the difference betwanelarnandlearn, and sure the only difference is that wan's wrong and the other's roight."
Jim had hoped to quite extinguish Andy by his corrections, and he hardly knew where he was when his mother finished; and he was still more abroad when Pat took him out after supper and vigorously informed him that bad manners were far worse than bad grammar.
"Well, well," thought the widow that evening as she waited alone for Pat, "Jim do be gettin' ahead of me, that he do. He's loike to have the consate, so he is, take him down as a body will. But there's wan good thing about it. While he's studyin' to beat us all on the talkin' he's lettin' the little b'ys alone famous. He didn't never do much to 'em, but he jist riled 'em completely, so he did, and made 'em cross at iverybody."
A month went along very quietly and, following that, another month. The weeds that had flourished along the sides of the ditches were all dead. No more did the squawking O'Callaghan geese delight themselves among them. The kitchen stove had long been brought back into the shanty, and Barney and Tommie, sitting close behind it on their short evenings that ended in bedtime at half-past seven o'clock, had only the remembrance of their labors. But that memory sweetened the prospect of savory dinners to come, for even Barney and Tommie liked to feel that they were of some importance in the family world. Often had their mother praised them for their care of the geese, and once she had bought for them a whole nickel's worth of candy and had bestowed this great treat with the words, "And how could I be havin' geese only for the little b'ys? You'll jist be givin' Larry a bit, for sure and he'll be past four nixt summer, and helpin' you loike anything."
The candy, like the summer, was only a memory now, but, without putting their hope into words, there lingered in the minds of the two an anticipation of more candy to come.
As for Larry, he lived from day to day and took whatever came his way cheerfully, which he might well do, since he was a general pet wherever he was known.
But now a new difficulty confronted the widow. Snowtime had come. How was she to get Larry along to her wash places? She was sitting late one Friday afternoon thinking about it. All day the snow had been falling, and many times, in the early dusk, had Jim been out to measure the depth with his legs. And each time he returned he had worn a more gratified smile.
"Well, Jim," said his mother finally, "you do be grinnin' foine ivery toime you come in, and a lot of wet you're bringin' with you, too, a-stampin' the snow off on the floor. You'll remimber that toimes are changed. Wanst it was old men as had the rheumatism, but now b'ys can have it, to say nothin' of colds and sore throats and doctors' bills. You'll stay in now. The snow can deepen without you, I'm thinkin'."
Thus admonished, Jim went with a bad grace to wash his hands, and then to set the table for supper.
Presently in came Pat.
"Where's the clothes basket, mother?" he inquired. "I'll be bringing in the clothes from the line for you."
Mrs. O'Callaghan handed him the basket with a smile, and out went Mr. Farnham's newest clerk to the summer kitchen, under whose roof the line was stretched in parallel lengths.
"I couldn't be dryin' the clothes in the house with no place to put 'em, but the new kitchen's the thing, so 'tis," the mother had said. "Clothes will dry there famous, 'specially when it's rainin' or snowin'. Pat and Moike did a good thing when they made it. I've heard tell of them as has dryin' rooms for winter, and 'tis mysilf has wan of 'em."
These were the words that had caused Pat to smile with pleasure, and had stirred Mike's heart with determination to do yet more for his mother. And that same evening the widow's sturdy second son came to the shanty, and behind him on the snow bumped and slid his newest handiwork—a sled for Larry to ride on.
"And what have you got there?" asked Mrs. O'Callaghan when he dragged it into the house.
"A sled!" cried Barney and Tommie together, pausing on their bedward way, and opening wide their sleepy eyes.
"And 'twas mysilf was wonderin' how to get Larry along with me!" exclaimed the mother when Mike had explained the object of the sled. "What's the good of me wonderin' when I've got Moike for my b'y? 'Twas his father as would have made a sled jist loike it, I'm thinkin'. But Moike," as she saw the light of affection in his eyes, "you'll be spoilin' me. Soon I'll not be wonderin' any more, but I'll be sayin', 'Moike will fix it some way.'"
"Will you, mother?" cried the boy. "Will you promise me that?"
"Moike! Moike!" said the widow, touched by his eager look and tone, "what a b'y you are for questions! Would I be layin' all my burdens on you, when it's six brothers you've got? 'Twouldn't be fair to you. But to know you're so ready and willin' loightens my ivery load, and it's a comfort you are to me. Your father was always for makin' easy toimes for other people, and you're loike him, Moike. And now I've something else to be talkin' of. Will you be havin' the goose for Gineral and Mrs. Brady to-morrow?"
"I will, mother," answered Mike respectfully.
"Then, Moike, when you get ready to go back, you'll foind the foinest wan of the lot all by himsilf in a box Pat brought from the store. Mr. Farnham give it to him, though he mostly sells 'em. And I've larned that goose to slape in it, so I have, and an awful job it was, too. Geese and pigs now, Moike, are slow to larn. But he knows his place at last, so he does, and you'll foind him in it."
Then catching sight, around the corner of the table, of the enraptured two on the kitchen floor busy over the new family treasure, she cried: "Now, Barney and Tommie, to bed with you, and dream of havin' the sled Saturdays, for that's what you shall have. 'Tis Moike makes the treats for us all."
That evening at half-past nine there was a knock on the sitting-room door.
"Come!" called the General.
The door opened and in walked Mike with the sleek goose under his arm.
"My mother's sending you a goose, Mrs. Brady," he said with a bow.
The Bradys were already much attached to Mike; and the General had been heard to say that the very name of O'Callaghan seemed to be a certificate of worthiness. So the goose was made much of and the next time Mike went home he carried a bunch of roses from Mrs. Brady.
"And sure 'tis roses as are the gift of a lady!" cried Mrs. O'Callaghan, receiving the flowers with an air of pride. "There's some as would have took the goose as their due and have made you feel loike dirt under their feet while they was takin' it. But the General and Mrs. Brady are quite another sort. And it's proud I am that they et the goose and found it good. Though it wouldn't have been good nayther if you hadn't cooked it good, Moike. There's them as can cook 'most anything and have it good, jist as there's them as can spoil the best. And now, Moike, I've news for you. But first do you notice how clean Jim kapes things? Him and Andy makes a foine team, so they do."
Mike looked about him with a critical air that increased in mock severity as he saw little Jim rapidly donning his regalia of importance. "See a speck of dust if you can," spoke Jim's look. And then Mike was lavish with his praise.
"You don't kape Mrs. Brady's things no cleaner, do you, Moike?"
"I don't, mother, for I can't," was the answer. Hearing which, Jim became pompous, and the widow judged that she might tell her news without unduly rousing up his jealousy.
"Well, then, Moike, you'll niver be guessin' the news, only maybe you've heard it already, for 'tis school news. Andy's to be set ahead of his class into the nixt higher wan. It's proud I am, for ivery family needs a scholar, so it does."
Mike turned upon Andy a look of affectionate interest. "I hadn't heard your news, mother, but it's good news, and I'm glad to hear it," he said heartily.
"I knowed you would be glad, Moike, for 'tis yoursilf as sees that when your brother gets up you get up with him. It's bad when wan brother thinks to be gettin' ahead of all the rest." And she looked gravely at Jim. "Brothers are made each wan to do his part, and be glad when wan and another gets up."
But little Jim appeared discontented. All this praise of Andy quite took the edge off what he himself had received. His mother sighed.
"But I'll not give him up yet," she thought after a moment. "No, I'll not give him up, for he's Tim's b'y, though most unlike him. I do moind hearin' wanst that Tim had a brother of that sort. Jim's loike him, no doubt, and he come to a bad end, so he did, a-gettin' to be an agitator, as they calls 'em. And sure what's an agitator but wan that's sour at iverybody's good luck but his own, and his own good luck turnin' out bad on account of laziness and consate? I'm needin' more wisdom than I've got when I'd be dealin' with Jim."
While the mother sat silent her sons were talking together in low tones. Andy and Jim told of the rabbits they had trapped in the hazel brush, and how they had eaten some and some they had sold in the stores. And Mike, in his turn, told them how many rabbits there were in the Brady neighborhood, and how nobody seemed to wish to have them disturbed.
"What are they good for, if you can't catch 'em?" asked Jim, who could never catch enough.
"Good to look pretty hopping about, I guess," responded Mike.
"Huh!" exclaimed Jim, who, like many a one older than he, had small respect for opinions that clashed with his own.
"He'll be turnin' to be an agitator sure, only maybe I can head him off," thought the mother, who had been idly listening.
"Jim," she said, "'twas your father as was iver for hearin' both sides of iverything. If there's them that thinks rabbits looks pretty jumpin' around, why, no doubt they do. 'Tisn't iverybody that's trappin', you'll moind. If you was a horse now, you'd be called strong in the mouth, and you'd need a firm hand on the lines. And if you'd been brung up among horses, as your father was, you'd know as them obstinate wans as wants the bits in their teeth are the wans as gets the beatin's. You're no horse, but things will go crossways to you all your loife if you don't do different. When there's nayther roight nor wrong in the matter let iverybody have their own way."
And then little Jim became downright sulky.
[Illustration: Little Jim became downright sulky.]
"Rabbits is for trappin'," he said stubbornly.
"Well, well," thought the widow, "I'll have to be waitin' a bit. But I'll be makin' something out of Jim yet."
Then she turned to Mike. "And how are you comin' on at the Gineral's?" she inquired. "It's hopin' I am you're watchin' him close and larnin' to be loike him."
"I'm trying, mother," was the modest answer.
Mrs. O'Callaghan nodded approvingly. "A pattern's a good thing for us all to go by," she said. "Your father's gone, and you can only be loike him by heedin' to what I'm tellin' you about him. But the Gineral you can see for yoursilves. If you can get to be loike your father and the Gineral both, it's proud I'll be of you. And I will say that you're a-comin' to it, Moike.
"And there's another thing. The little b'ys has their chance, too. And it's because Andy here takes as natural to bein' a gintleman as thim geese takes to squawkin'. Whether it's loikin' his book or what it is, he's the wan to have handy for the little b'ys to pattern by. As far as he's gone he knows, and he can't be beat in knowin' how to treat other folks nice. And he's that quiet about what he knows that you wouldn't think he knows anything only for seein' him act it out."
And now little Jim was completely miserable. Constantly craving praise was little Jim, and the loss of it was torture to him. The widow glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She saw it was time to relieve him.
"But there's wan thing Jim's got that no other wan of my b'ys has," she continued.
Jim pricked up his ears.
"He's the born foighter, is Jim. If he was big now, and there was a war to come, he'd be a soldier, I'm thinkin'. He's for foightin' iverything, even the words of a body's mouth."
This praise might be equivocal, but little Jim did not so understand it, and his pride returned.
His mother observed it. "But what you need, Jim," she went on, "is to be takin' a tuck in yoursilf. Look at the Gineral. Does he go foightin' in toimes of peace? That he don't. Will you look at the Gineral, Jim?"
Now Pat and Mike had been instructed to look at the General as their pattern. This appeal was placing Jim alongside of his two big brothers.
"Will you look at the Gineral, Jim?" repeated Mrs. O'Callaghan.
"I will," said Jim.