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The Widow O\'Callaghan\'s Boys

G >> Gulielma Zollinger >> The Widow O\'Callaghan\'s Boys



The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys

BY GULIELMA ZOLLINGER

(1904, 10th edition)









[Illustration: "CAN'T I DIPIND ON YE B'YS?"]





ILLUSTRATIONS

Can't I depind on ye, b'ys?

It's your father's ways you have

For every one carried something

"Cheer up, Andy!" he said

Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy

Pat donned his apron

"I've good news for you, Fannie," said the General

The General makes the gravy

Pat doing the marketing

Pat and Mike building the kitchen

Up on the roof sat Mike with his knife

Barney and Tommie a-takin' care of the geese

The merchant turned to the girl clerk

Mrs. O'Callaghan looked astonished

Little Jim became downright sulky

In they came at that moment

Jim made a clatter with the dishes

Open the oven door, Jim

Look at that Jim work

Three cheers for Jim O'Callaghan

Pat and Mike were one on each side of him






CHAPTER I


When Mr. O'Callaghan died, after a long, severe, and expensive sickness,
he left to his widow a state of unlimited poverty and seven boys.

"Sure, an' sivin's the parfect number," she said through her tears as
she looked round on her flock; "and Tim was the bist man as iver lived,
may the saints presarve him an' rist him from his dreadful pains!"

Thus did she loyally ignore the poverty. It was the last of February.
Soon they must leave the tiny house of three rooms and the farm, for
another renter stood ready to take possession. There would be nothing to
take with them but their clothing and their scant household furniture,
for the farm rent and the sickness had swallowed up the crop, the
farming implements, and all the stock.

Pat, who was fifteen and the oldest, looked gloomily out at one of the
kitchen windows, and Mike, the next brother, a boy of thirteen, looked
as gloomily as he could out of the other. Mike always followed Pat's
lead.

When eleven-year-old Andy was a baby Pat had taken him for a pet.
Accordingly, when, two years later, Jim was born, Mike took him in
charge. To-day Pat's arm was thrown protectingly over Andy's shoulders,
while Jim stood in the embrace of Mike's arm at the other window. Barney
and Tommie, aged seven and five respectively, whispered together in a
corner, and three-year-old Larry sat on the floor at his mother's feet
looking wonderingly up into her face.

Five days the father had slept in his grave, and still there was the
same solemn hush of sorrow in the house that fell upon it when he died.

"And what do you intend to do?" sympathetically asked Mrs. Smith, a
well-to-do farmer's wife and a neighbor.

The widow straightened her trim little figure, wiped her eyes, and
replied in a firm voice: "It's goin' to town I am, where there's work to
be got, as well as good schoolin' for the b'ys."

"But don't you think that seven boys are almost more than one little
woman can support? Hadn't you better put some of them out--for a
time?"--the kind neighbor was quick to add, as she saw the gathering
frown on the widow's face.

"Sure," she replied, 'twas the Lord give me the b'ys, an' 'twas the Lord
took away their blissid father. Do ye think He'd 'a' done ayther wan or
the other if He hadn't thought I could care for 'em all? An' I will,
too. It may be we'll be hungry--yis, an' cold, too--wanst in a while.
But it won't be for long."

"But town is a bad place for boys, I'm told," urged the neighbor.

"Not for mine," answered the widow quietly. "They're their father's
b'ys, an' I can depind on 'em. They moind me loightest word. Come here,
Pat, an' Moike, an' Andy, an' Jim, an' Barney, an' Tommie!"

Obediently the six drew near. She raised Larry to her lap, and looked up
touchingly into their faces. "Can't I depind on ye, b'ys?"

"Yes, mother, course you can," answered Pat for them all.

A moment the widow paused to steady her voice, and then resumed, "It's
all settled. A-Saturday I goes to town to get a place. A-Monday we
moves."

The neighbor saw that it was indeed settled, and, like a discreet woman,
did not push her counsel further, but presently took her leave, hoping
that the future might be brighter than it promised for Mrs. O'Callaghan
and her boys.

* * * * *

"Aise 'em up an' down the hills, Pat, the dear bastes that your father
loved!"

Mrs. O'Callaghan and Pat were driving to Wennott behind the team that
was theirs no longer, and it was Saturday. No need to speak to Pat. The
whip rested in the socket, and he wished, for his part, that the horses
would crawl. He knew how poor they were, and he did not want to go to
town. But mother said town, and town it must be.

Down across the railroad track, a little northeast of the depot, was a
triangular bit of ground containing about as much as two lots, and on it
had been erected a poor little shanty of two rooms. The widow knew of
this place, and she meant to try to secure it.

"'Twill jist do for the loikes of us, Pat, for it's a low rint we're
after, an' a place quiet loike an' free from obsarvers. If it's poor ye
are, well an' good, but, says I, 'There's no use of makin' a show of
it.' For it's not a pretty show that poverty makes, so it ain't, an',
says I, 'A pretty show or none.' I see you're of my moind," she
continued with a shrewd glance at him, "an' it heartens me whin ye agree
with me, for your father's gone, an' him and me used to agree
wonderful."

Pat's lips twitched. He had been very fond of his father. And all at
once it seemed to him that town and the shanty were the two most
desirable things in their future.

"But, cheer up, Pat! 'Twas your father as was a loively man, d'ye moind?
Yon's the town. It's hopin' I am that our business'll soon be done."

Pat's face brightened a little, for he found the entry into even so
small a town as Wennott a diversion. To-day he looked about him with new
interest, for here were streets and stores that were to become familiar
to him. They entered the town from the south and drove directly to its
center, where stood the courthouse in a small square surrounded by an
iron hitching-rack. Stores faced it on every side, and above the stores
were the lawyers' offices. Which one belonged to the man who had charge
of the place the widow wished to rent, she wondered, and Pat wondered,
as she stood by, while he tied the horses.

[Illustration: "It's your father's ways you have."]

Above the stores, too, were doctors' offices, and dentists' offices,
dress-making-shops, and suites of rooms where young couples and, in some
instances, small families lived.

"We'll jist be inquirin', Pat. 'Tis the only way. But what to ask for, I
don't know. Shall I be sayin' the bit of a place beyant the tracks?"

"Yes, mother. That's what you want, ain't it?"

"Sure it is, an' nothin' else, nayther. It's your father's ways you
have, Pat. 'Twas himsilf as wint iver straight after what he wanted."

Pat's eyes beamed and he held himself more proudly. What higher praise
could there be for him than to be thought like his father?

It chanced that the first lawyer they asked was the right one.

"Luck's for us," whispered the little widow. "Though maybe 'twouldn't
have been against us, nayther, if we'd had to hunt a bit."

And then all three set out to look at the poor little property.

"Sure, an' it suits me purpose intoirely," declared Mrs. O'Callaghan
when the bargain had been concluded. "An' it's home we'll be goin' at
wanst. We've naught to be buyin' the day, seein' we're movin' in on
Monday."

Pat made no answer.

"Did you see thim geese a-squawkin' down by the tracks?" asked Mrs.
O'Callaghan, as she and her son settled themselves on the high spring
seat of the farm wagon.

Pat nodded.

"There's an idea," said his mother. "There's more than wan in the world
as can raise geese. An' geese is nice atin', too. I didn't see no
runnin' water near, but there's a plinty of ditches and low places where
there'll be water a-standin' a good bit of the toime. An' thim that
can't git runnin' water must take standin'. Yis, Pat, be they geese or
min, in this world they must take what they can git an' fat up on it as
much as they can, too."

The thin little woman--thin from overwork and anxiety and grief--spoke
thus to her tall son, who, from rapid growing, was thin, too, and she
spoke with a soberness that told how she was trying to strengthen her
own courage to meet the days before her. Absorbed in themselves, mother
and son paid no heed to their surroundings, the horses fell into their
accustomed brisk trot, and they were soon out on the narrow road that
lay between the fields.

"Now, Pat, me b'y," said Mrs. O'Callaghan, rousing herself, "you're the
oldest an' I'll tell you my plans. I'm a-goin' to git washin' to do."

The boy looked at his mother in astonishment.

"I know I'm little," she nodded back at him, "but it's the grit in me
that makes me strong. I can do it. For Tim's b'ys an' mine I can do it.
Four days in the week I'll wash for other people, Friday I'll wash for
my own, Saturday I'll mind for 'em, an' Sunday I'll rist."

A few moments there was silence. The
widow seemed to have no more to say.

"An' what am I to do?" finally burst out Pat. "An' what's Mike to do?
Sure we can help some way."

"That you can, Pat. I was comin' to that. Did you notice the biggest
room in the little house we rinted the day?"

Pat nodded.

"I thought you did. You're an obsarvin' b'y, Pat, jist loike your
father. Well, I belave that room will jist about hold three beds an'
lave a nate little path betwane ivery two of 'em. It's my notion we can
be nate an' clane if we are poor, an' it'll be your part to make ivery
wan of thim beds ivery day an' kape the floor clane. Larry an' mesilf,
we'll slape in the kitchen, an' it's hopin' I am you'll kape that
shoinin', too. An' then there's the coal to be got in an' the ashes to
be took out. It does seem that iverything you bring in is the cause of
somethin' to be took out, but it can't be helped, so it can't, so 'Out
with it,' says I. An' there's the dishes to be washed an'--I hate to ask
you, Pat, but do you think you could larn cookin' a bit?"

She looked at him anxiously. The boy met her look bravely.

"If you can work to earn it, 'tis meself as can cook it, I guess," he
said.

"Jist loike your father, you are, Pat. He wasn't niver afraid of tryin'
nothin', an' siven b'ys takes cookin'. An' to hear you say you'll do it,
whin I've larnt you, of course, aises me moind wonderful. There's some
as wouldn't do it, Pat. I'm jist tellin' you this to let you know you're
better than most." And she smiled upon him lovingly.

"If the most of 'em's that mean that they wouldn't do what they could
an' their mother a--washin', 'tis well I'm better than them, anyway,"
returned Pat.

"Ah, but Pat, they'd think it benathe 'em. 'Tis some grand thing they'd
be doin' that couldn't be done at all. That's the way with some, Pat.
It's grand or nothin', an' sure an' it's ginerally nothin', I've
noticed."

A mile they went in silence. And then Mrs. O'Callaghan said: "As for the
rist, you'll all go to school but Larry, an' him I'll take with me when
I go a--washin'. I know I can foind thim in the town that'll help a poor
widow that much, an' that's all the help I want, too. Bad luck to
beggars. I'm none of 'em."

Pat did not respond except by a kindly glance to show that he heard, and
his mother said no more till they drove in at the farm gate.

"An' it's quite the man Pat is," she cried cheerily to the six who came
out to meet them. "You'll do well, all of you, to pattern by Pat. An'
it's movin' we'll be on Monday, jist as I told you. It's but a small
place we've got, as Pat will tell you there. Close to the north side of
the town it is, down by the railroad tracks, where you can see all the
trains pass by day an' hear 'em by night; an' there's freight cars
standin' about at all toimes that you can look at, an' they've got iron
ladders on the inds of 'em, but you must niver be goin' a-climbin' on
top of thim cars."

At this announcement Andy and Jim looked interested, and the eyes of
Barney and Tommie fairly shone with excitement. The widow had
accomplished her object. Her boys were favorably inclined toward the new
home, and she slipped into her bedroom to shed in secret the tears she
could no longer restrain.




CHAPTER II


Sunday dawned cold and blustering--a sullen day that seemed hardly to
know which way was best to make itself disagreeable, and so tried them
all. The stock had been removed. There was no work outside for the two
oldest boys, no watching indoors by the hungry little brothers for Pat
and Mike to be through milking, and feeding, and pumping water into the
trough, so that they might all have breakfast together. Yes, there had
been a little work. The two horses which, with the wagon, had been
kindly lent them for their next day's moving were in the barn. Mike had
fed and watered them, Pat had combed them, and both had petted them.

Many a time that day would Mrs. O'Callaghan slip out to stroke their
noses and pat their glossy necks and say in a choked voice, "Tim's
horses! Tim's horses! and we can't kape 'em!" And many a time that day
would she smooth the signs of grief from her face to go into the house
again with what cheer she could to her seven sons, who were gathered
listlessly about the kitchen stove. Many a time that day would she tell
herself stoutly, "I'll not give in! I'll not give in! I've to be brave
for eight, so I have. Brave for my b'ys, and brave for mesilf. And shall
I fret more than is good for Tim's horses whin I know it's to a kind
master they're goin', and he himsilf a helpin' us to-morrow with the
movin'? The Lord's will be done! There's thim that thinks the Lord has
no will for horses and such. And 'tis mesilf is thankful that I can't
agree with 'em."

Occasionally, as the morning passed, one of the boys stepped to the
window for a moment, for even to glance out at flying flakes and a
wintry landscape was a relief from the depression that had settled down
upon them all.

That was a neighborhood of churches. Seven or eight miles from any town,
it was remarkable to see three churches within half a mile of each
other. Small, plain buildings they were, but they represented the firm
convictions of the United Brethren, the United Presbyterians, and the
Methodists for many miles around. Now all these people, vary as they
might in church creeds, were united in a hearty admiration for plucky
little Mrs. O'Callaghan. They all knew, though the widow would not own
it, that destitution was at her door. The women feared that in taking
her boys to town she was taking them to their ruin, while the men
thought her course the only one, since a destitute woman can hardly run
a farm with only seven growing boys to help her. And for a day or two
there had been busy riding to and fro among the neighbors.

The snow fell fitfully, and the wind howled in gusts, but every farmer
hitched up and took his wife and children with him, and no family went
empty-handed. For every road to every church lay straight by the widow's
door. Short cuts there were to be used on general occasions, but that
morning there was but the one road. And so it fell out that by ten
o'clock there was a goodly procession of farm wagons, with here and
there a buggy, and presently the widow's fence was lined with teams, and
the men, women, and children were alighting and thronging up the narrow
path to Mrs. O'Callaghan's door. There was no merriment, but there was a
kindly look on every face that was beautiful to see. And there were
those between whom bitterness had been growing that smiled upon each
other to-day, as they jostled burdens on the path; for every one carried
something, even the children, who stumbled by reason of their very
importance.

The widow looked out and saw the full hands, and her heart sank. Was she
to be provided for by charity? She looked with her keen eyes into the
crowd of faces, and her heart went up into her throat. It was not
charity, but neighborliness and good will she read there.

"I'd be wan of 'em, if somebody else was me, may the Lord bless 'em,"
she said as she opened wide the door.

In they trooped, and, for a moment, everybody seemed to be talking at
once.

[Illustration: "For every one carried something."]

It sometimes needs a great deal of talk to make a kind deed seem like
nothing at all. Sometimes even a great deal of talk fails to do so. It
failed to-day.

Tears were running unheeded down the widow's face. Not even her boys
knew how everything was gone, and she left with no money to buy more.
And everybody tried not to see the tears and everybody talked faster
than ever. Then the first church bell rang out, and old and young turned
to go. There came a little lull as one after another gave the widow's
hand a cordial clasp.

"My friends," said Mrs. O'Callaghan--she could be heard now--"my dear
friends, I thank you all. You have made my heart strong the day."

"I call that a pretty good way to put in time on Sunday," said one man
to another as they were untying their teams.

"Makes going to church seem worth while, for a fact," returned his
neighbor.

Not till the last vehicle had passed from sight did the widow look round
upon what her neighbors had left her, and then she saw sufficient pantry
stores to last even seven growing boys for a month. And among the rest
of her gifts she found coal for a week. She had not noticed her sons as
she busily took account of her stock, but when she had finished she
said, "B'ys, b'ys! 'tis your father sees the hearts of these good people
this day and rej'ices. Ah, but Tim was a ginerous man himsilf! It's
hopin' I am you'll all be loike him."

That night when the younger boys were in bed and only Pat and Mike sat
keeping her company, the widow rose from her seat, went to a box already
packed and took therefrom an account book and pencil.

"They're your father's," she said, "but it's a good use I'll be puttin'
'em to."

Writing was, for the hand otherwise capable, a laborious task; but no
help would she have from either of her sons.

"May I ask you not to be spakin'?" she said politely to the two. "It's
not used to writin' I am, and I must be thinkin' besides."

Two hours she sat there, her boys glancing curiously at her now and then
at first, and later falling into a doze in their chairs. She wrote two
words and stopped. Over and over she wrote two words and stopped. Over
and over until she had written two words and stopped fifty times. And
often she wiped away her tears. At last her task was done, and there in
the book, the letters misshapen and some of the words misspelled, were
the names of all who had come to her that morning. Just fifty there were
of them. She read them over carefully to see that she had not forgotten
any.

"Maybe I'll be havin' the chance to do 'em a good turn some day," she
said. "I will, if I can. But whether I do or not, I've got it here in
writin', that when all was gone, and I didn't have nothin', the Lord
sint fifty friends to help me out. Let me be gettin' down in the heart
and discouraged again, and I'll take this book and read the Lord's
doin's for me. Come Pat and Moike! It's to bed you must be goin', for
we're to move to-morrow, do you moind?"




CHAPTER III


According to Mrs. O'Callaghan's plans, the moving was accomplished the
next day. There was but one load of household goods, so that the two
teams of their kind neighbor made only one trip, but that load, with the
seven boys and their mother, filled the shanty by the tracks to
overflowing. The little boys immediately upon their arrival had been all
eyes for the trains, and, failing them, the freight cars. And they had
reluctantly promised never to ascend the iron freight car ladders when
they had been in their new home only one hour.

"Whin you're dailin' with b'ys take 'em in toime," was the widow's
motto. "What's the use of lettin' 'em climb up and fall down, and maybe
break their legs or arms, and then take their promise? Sure, and I'll
take it before the harm's done, so I will."

Such tooting the delighted little fellows had never heard. "Barney!"
whispered Tommie, in the middle of the night, with a nudge. "Barney!
there's another of 'em!"

"And listen to the bell on it," returned Barney. "Ain't you glad we
moved?"

And then they fell asleep to wake and repeat the conversation a little
later. Larry was the only one who slept the night through. The rest were
waked so many times by the unaccustomed noise that one night seemed like
twenty.

"We'll be used to it in toime," said the heavy-eyed little widow to
yawning Pat and Mike the next morning. "And the more things you get used
to in this world the better for you. I belave it's quite something loike
to be able to sleep with engines tootin' and blowin' off steam, and
bells a-ringin', and cars a-bumpin'. Even a baby can slape where 'tis
quiet, you know."

Breakfast had been over an hour.

"Now, Pat," said his mother, "that's not the way to make beds. Off with
them covers and make 'em over again."

Mrs. O'Callaghan was standing in the doorway and looking in at the
roomful of beds. "I don't mane it for unkindness, Pat, but sure and the
way you've got 'em made up they look jist loike pigs' nests with covers
over 'em. There, that's better," she commented when Pat had obediently
made all the beds over again under her instructions. "You can't larn all
there is to bed-makin' in a day. 'Tis practice makes parfect, as your
copy book used to say. But I'm thinkin' you'll have it in a week, for
you're your father's son, and he was a quick wan to larn, was Tim. And
now I'll be teachin' you a bit of cookin' while I have the chance. You
must larn that as quick as you can, Pat, for a poor cook wastes a sight,
besides settin' dishes of stuff on the table that none but pigs can eat.
And in most places the pigs would get their messes, but here we've got
no pigs, and whativer you cook we've got to be eatin'. Andy was askin'
for beans for to-morrow a bit ago. What's your ideas about bakin' beans,
Pat? How would you do it?"

Pat thought a moment. "I'd wash 'em good, and put 'em in a pan, and bake
'em," he said.

"Sure, then, you've left out one thing. With that receipt, Pat, you'd
need a hammer to crack 'em with after they was baked. No, no, Pat, you
pick 'em over good and put 'em a-soak over night. In the mornin' you
pick 'em over again, and wash 'em good and bile 'em awhile, and pour off
the water, and bile 'em again in fresh water with jist enough salt in
it, and then you put 'em in the oven and bake 'em along with a piece of
pork that's been a-bilin' in another kittle all the toime."

Pat looked a trifle astonished, but all he said was, "_Baked beans_
is a queer name for 'em, ain't it?"

Mrs. O'Callaghan smiled. "That's the short of it, Pat, jist the short of
it. The names of things don't tell half there is to 'em sometoimes. And
now for the dinner. It's belavin' I am you can cook it with me standin'
by to help you out when you get into trouble."

Pat tied on a clean apron, washed his hands and set to work.

"That's it! That's it!" encouraged Mrs. O'Callaghan, from time to time,
as the cooking progressed. "And I'll jist be tellin' you, Pat, you're
not so green as some girls I've seen. I'd rather have a handy b'y as an
unhandy girl any day."

A little later she stood in the shanty door. "Come, Moike!" she called.
"Bring the little b'ys in to dinner. Pat's a-dishin' it a'ready."

Mike had been detailed by his prudent mother as a guard to prevent his
small brothers from making too intimate acquaintance with freight cars
and engines. He was by this time pretty hungry, and he marshaled in his
squad with scant ceremony.

A week went by and the widow was settled. Each boy was placed in his
proper class at the public school, and the mother had her coveted four
washing places.

"I didn't come to town to be foolin' my toime away, so I didn't," said
Mrs. O'Callaghan, as she sat down to rest with a satisfied face. "Pat,"
she continued, "you've done foine with the work this week. All I've to
say is, 'Kape on.' It'll kape you busy at it with school on your hands,
but, sure, them as is busy ain't in mischief, nayther."

The next week all went well with the widow and Larry as usual, but the
boys at school found rough sailing.

"Ah, but Mrs. Thompson's the jewel!" cried Mrs. O'Callaghan on Monday
evening. "She do be sayin' that Larry's a cute little fellow, and she
has him in to play where she is, and he gets to hear the canary bird
sing, so he does. Didn't I be tellin' you, Pat, that I knew there was
them in this town would help me that way? But what makes you all look so
glum? Didn't you foind the school foine the day? Niver moind! You ain't
acquainted yet. And jist remember that iverybody has a deal to bear in
this world, and the poor most of all. If anybody does you a rale wrong,
come tell me of it. But if it's only nignaggin', say naught about it.
'Twon't last foriver, anyway, and them that's mane enough to nignag a
poor b'y is too mane to desarve attintion, so they are."

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