The Angel of the Gila Part 22

"Sure," said one.

"That's right," added another. They all nodded their heads in approval. Then up spoke Bridget Flinn:

"Shure, an' she's on the right thrack. When we can do housework, we can command a high wage, an' git on. My cousin gits five dollars a week in New York, an' she says she has mere nothin' ter do, an'

dthresses as good as her misthress. Oi'd loike ter learn ter write letthers, so as ter wroite ter Pat, an' Oi'd loike ter learn housekapin', so's I could go out ter sarvice."

Then a pretty Mexican girl, with a soft voice, spoke:

"Martha Castello is my name. I want to learn to read an' write an'

sing."

The teacher stepped to the blackboard, and wrote the following:

Reading Arithmetic Sewing Writing Singing Housekeeping

The girls watched her intently.

"An' letthers," suggested Bridget.

"To be sure--letters," said Esther, writing the word.

Then followed the organization of the girls' club, resulting in the election of Jessie Roth as president. It was agreed that for the present the girls should enter school, and occasionally meet with the teacher outside of school hours.

That day proved a red-letter day for them. They had come in touch with an inspiring personality, and their education had begun.

Years have come and gone since that day; but the people of Gila still tell how a young girl, the sweetest soul that ever lived, came and dwelt among them, and brought G.o.d into their lives. Even the roughest old men will pause, and say with reverence:

"The Angel of the Gila! G.o.d bless her!"

The afternoon session of the school pa.s.sed quickly. Then followed a bit of kindly talk with the seven new pupils. Then Esther Bright walked homeward. She was overtaken by Brigham Murphy and Wathemah.

Something mysterious seemed in the air.

"Miss Bright," blurted out Brigham, "Maw says as will yer come home with us ter-morrer, ter visit. We're goin' ter have chicken an' lots o' good things ter eat, ain't we, Wathemah? An' he's comin', too, ain't yer, Wathemah?"

The Indian child gave an affirmative grunt, and trudged along close to his teacher. It was a way he had of doing since she had promised to be his mother.

"Will yer come?" eagerly questioned the representative of the Mormon household.

"I shall be happy to if you will show me the way."

"Oh, we'll 'scort yer!" And Brigham turned several somersaults, and ran like a deer along the road leading to the Murphy ranch.

Such a flutter of excitement as the prospective visit brought to the Murphy household!

"Maw," said Brigham in the midst of his mother's volley of directions on household arrangements, "Ain't yer goin' ter ask schoolma'am ter stay all night?" He seemed suddenly interested in social amenities.

"Of course I be! Landy! Don't yer s'pose y'r maw's got no p'liteness?

I told schoolma'am 'bout my 'lations as lives on Lexity Street, York City, an' keeps a confectony, an' she'll 'spect yer ter be jest as p'lite an' 'ristercratic as they be. I'll sleep on the floor, an' Kate an' Kathleen an' Wathemah kin sleep with schoolma'am. She'll think it a great come-down, Pat Murphy, fur one as is a 'lation, so ter speak, of Miz Common of Lexity Street, York City, she'll think it's a great come-down, I say, fur one with sech folks ter live in a common adobe.

Y'r not ter let on y're Irish, but speak as though yer was French like."

She had given emphasis to her remarks with more and more energetic movements of her arm, as she washed off the furniture. At last she paused, and her husband ventured a reply.

"Begorra! An' would yez be afther changin' me mouth to the Frinch stoile?"

He sidled toward the door, and grinned as he caught the reflection of himself in the dirty piece of mirror that still remained in the old black frame on the wall.

There was no denying the fact that Patrick bore unmistakable evidence of his Irish origin. He realized that he had ventured his remarks as far as was consistent with peace and safety; so he walked from the house, chuckling to himself as he went, "Relations on Lexington Street! Frinch stoile! Begorra!" And he laughed outright.

"Patrick Murphy," his spouse called after him. "This is the first time a friend o' my 'lations in York City (so ter speak) has visited me.

Patrick Murphy, what _do_ yer s'pose Josiah Common done when my sister visited there? He took her ter a theatre an' after that he took her ter a resternt, an' treated her. That's what he done! The least yer can do is ter scrub up, comb yer har an' put on a clean s.h.i.+rt ter-morrer. Yer ter clean up, do yer hear?" All this in a high treble.

"Frinch stoile?" inquired Patrick, with a broadening grin. But this was lost upon Mrs. Murphy, engrossed in plans for the reception of the coming guest. She smoothed down her hair with both hands.

"Here, Mandy," she called abruptly, "wash out the tablecloth. Sam, you clean the winders. Jo, you run over to Miz Brown's an' say as y'r Maw's goin' ter have comp'ny ter-morrer as must have knowed her 'lations as lived on Lexity Street, York City, an' kep' a confectony.

Tell her y'r Maw wants a dozen eggs ter make a cake an' custard. Jake, oh, Jake!" she called in stentorian tones, "you go ketch them two settin' hens! The only way yer kin break up a settin' hen when yer don't want her ter set is jest to make potpie o' her. Y're goin' ter have a supper that yer'll remember ter y'r dyin' day. We uster have sech suppers at barn raisin's back East."

The small boys smacked their lips in antic.i.p.ation. The mother turned suddenly.

"My landy!" she said. "I forgot somethin'."

"What?" inquired Amanda.

"A napting!"

"A napting? What's that?"

But Mrs. Murphy had begun on the floor, and was scrubbing so vigorously she did not hear the question.

When order finally evolved from chaos, Mrs. Murphy, with her hair disheveled and arms akimbo, viewed the scene. Everything was so clean it was sleek,--sleek enough to ride down hill on and never miss snow or ice.

"Come 'ere, childern," said Mrs. Murphy, mopping her face with a corner of her ap.r.o.n. "I want yer to stan' aroun' the room, the hull ten o' yer, all but the baby. Mandy, do take the baby an' stop her cryin'. Joseph Smith, stan' at the head, 'cause y're the oldest.

That's the way I uster stan' at the head o' the spellin' cla.s.s when we uster spell down 'fore I graduated from deestrict school back in York State. Y'r Maw was a good speller, ef I do say it. 'Range y'rselfs in order, 'cordin' to age."

A tumultuous scramble followed. Maternal cuffs, freely administered, brought a semblance of order.

"Now, childern," said the mother, in a hard shrill voice, "what is y'r 'ligion? Speak up, or yer know what yer'll git!"

"'Ligion o' the Latter Day Saints," answered Samuel.

"An' who is the Prophet o' the Lord?" continued Mrs. Murphy.

"Brigham Young," answered Amanda, a.s.suming an air of conscious superiority.

"No, he isn't neither," protested Brigham, "for my teacher said so.

Jesus is the only prophet o' the Lord since Old Testament times."

But the heretic was jerked from the line, to await later muscular arguments. Then the mother continued her catechism.

"Who's another prophet o' the Lord as has had relevations?"