The Widow O'Callaghan's Boys Part 9

"Well, then, to be telling you the truth, Moike, who should be askin' me if I knowed of a boy to kape his lawn clean this summer but the Gineral.

Says I, 'I do, Gineral Brady. I'll be bold to say my Moike will do it.'

So there I've promised for you, Moike, and you're to have a dollar a month."

The boy's delight at the prospect shone in his eyes and his mother went on, "Strong and hearty you are, Moike, and I've been thinkin' what's to hinder your gettin' other lawns with school out next week and nothin' to bother you."

The little woman looked tired and warm. She was just home from Thursday's wash, and she sat down wearily on one of the wooden chairs.

Mike saw it, and, to the boy who would be fourteen the next day, there suddenly came a realizing sense of the stay his mother was to the family. He noted with anxiety the lines that were deepening on her face.

"Sit in father's chair, mother dear," he coaxed. "'Twill rest you more."

The widow looked at him with a pleased expression creeping over her face.

"You're father and mother both, so you are. Sit in father's chair,"

persuaded Mike.

"No," she answered, as she rose and went over to the seat of honor.

"Don't praise me too much. I'm jist your mother, doin' the best I can for you, though."

And she sat down and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

The st.u.r.dy figure of the boy began to move briskly about. He made up the fire and then he slipped out at the door and took an observation. No shade anywhere but at the east end of the shanty, where the building itself threw a shade. He hurried in again.

"Will you be gettin' up, mother dear, if you please?"

In surprise she stood up. The strong, young arms reached past her, lifted the chair, and then the boy began to pick his way carefully so as not to strike this treasured possession against anything.

"What are you doin', Moike?" asked Mrs. O'Callaghan in astonishment.

"I'm takin'--the chair--outside--where--there's a cool shade. 'Tis too hot--for you here where I'm cookin'."

He turned and looked back as he stood in the doorway. "Come, mother dear, and rest you in the cool."

"Moike! Moike!" cried the widow, touched by this attention. "'Tis what your father would have done if he was here. Always afraid he was, that I would be gettin' overtired or something. 'Tis sweet to have his b'y so loike him."

Mike's heart gave a great throb. He knew now the taste of that praise that kept Pat pus.h.i.+ng ahead. "'Tis for Pat to lead--he's the oldest," he thought over his cooking. "But see if I don't be lookin' out for mother after this, and makin' it as easy for her as I can. I'd lug forty chairs ten miles, so I would, to have her praise me like that."

The next morning the widow rose still weary. The kitchen was uncomfortably warm as a sleeping place now, but what could be done about it? Nothing.

"It's all there is, and I won't be sayin' a word about it, so I won't,"

she thought. "I'll jist tuck Larry in with Moike, and I guess I can stand it."

Wash day for the home. She hardly felt equal to her task.

Breakfast was over, but what was Mike doing? Not making his beds, nor was.h.i.+ng his dishes. He had put on and filled the boiler. Now he was carrying out wash bench and tubs to the west side of the shanty. The west was the shady side of a morning. In he came again--this time for the father's chair.

"'Tis an iligant breeze there is this mornin'," he cried. "Come out, mother, dear, and sit in father's chair. You've got a wash boy this mornin', so you have, and he'll need a lot of showin'."

He reached for the washboard as he ceased, and smiled lovingly on his mother.

"Moike! Moike!" cried Mrs. O'Callaghan in a trembling tone, "'tis sweet to be took care of. I hain't been took care of since your father died."

"Then 'tis time you was!" answered Mike. "And I'm the boy to do it, too.

Come out, mother dear."

And the mother went out.

"But there's your housework, Moike."

"That can wait," was the positive reply.

"But there's your schoolin'."

"I'm not goin' to school to-day. I know my lessons. I learnt 'em last night. Will I be goin' to school and sittin' there all day, and you all tired out a-was.h.i.+n' for us? I won't that."

"Moike, 'twas your father was dreadful headstrong when he set out to be.

It's fearin' I am you're loike him there."

But the happy light in her eyes was reflected on the face of her son as he answered: "It's wantin' I am to be like him in everything, headstrong and all. I'm not goin' to school to-day."

"And you needn't, Moike. I'll be ownin' to you now I didn't feel equal to the was.h.i.+n', and that's the truth."

Mike nodded and went gayly into the house for warm water and the clothes.

"There's more than one kind of a boy needed in a house," he said to himself. "With seven of us mother ought to have 'em of all kinds. I'm the one to be aisin' her. I'm built for it." And he rolled up his s.h.i.+rt sleeves over his strong, muscular young arms.

"Now be careful," began Mike's first lesson in was.h.i.+ng, "and don't waste the soap and your strength a-tryin' to get the dirt out of the places that ain't dirty. Rub where the rubbin's needed, and put the soap where it's wanted. That's it. You're comin' on foine." And the widow resumed her seat.

For a few moments she sat silent in thought. Then she said: "Do you know what's the matter with this town, Moike? All the b'ys in it that wants to work at all wants to do somethin' aisy, loike drivin' a delivery wagon. Though the way they drive 'em ain't so aisy on the horses, nayther. There's a lesson for you, Moike. Them that's so aisy on themsilves is the very wans to be hard on iverything and iverybody. Them that's got snail's feet of their own can't get a horse to go fast enough for 'em, specially when the horse belongs to somebody else. And I'm jist a-gettin' my courage up, Moike. I belave there'll be always something for my b'ys to do, because my b'ys will _work_. And if they can't get b'ys' work they'll do girls' work. Betwane you and me, Moike, I'm proud of Pat. Have you heard the news? When school closes he's to have two dollars a week, and three afternoons out all summer. And what do you think Mrs. Brady says? She says she hain't had such help since she lived in the East. She says she's restin', and she feels ten years younger.

That's your brother's work, Moike,--makin' a lady like Mrs. Gineral Brady feel ten years younger. If there's aught to be ashamed of in that, sure 'twould take a ninny to find out what it is. I'll warrant them delivery b'ys' horses ain't feelin' ten years younger, anyway."

Mike's face showed that he relished his mother's talk; seeing which, she went on: "You're doin' foine, Moike. Do you know there was a girl wanst set to was.h.i.+n', and she had it in her moind to do a good job, too. The first thing she got hold of was a pillow case with lace on the ind of it--wide lace. And what does she do but lather that clean lace with soap and put in her best licks on it, and all to no purpose at all only to wear the lace to strings, and then, don't you think, she quite skipped the body of the case where the head had been a-layin'."

Mike laughed.

That night as the widow and her boys sat outside the door in the cool, quick steps came down the track, crunching the slack and cinders that filled the s.p.a.ces between the ties. It was Pat who was coming, and his face was anxious.

"What ails you, mother dear?" he cried lovingly.

"Why, nothin', Pat, only I've got some sons that spoils me, so I have, a-makin' much of me. 'Tis a dreadful complaint, ain't it? But there's mothers as is not loike to die of it." And she laughed half tearfully.

She had been nearer breaking down that morning than she would admit, and her nerves were still a little unsteady.

"Andy told me at recess Mike was stayin' home to wash, and I didn't know what to think. I've been worryin' about it ever since, and the minute my work was done I come a-flyin' to see."

"You needn't worry no more, Pat. Sure, and I thought when the chance come for you to go to Mrs. Gineral Brady 'twas because the Lord saw our need. And that was it, no doubt, but there's more to it, Pat. You went that I might foind out what koind of a b'y Moike is. You moind what I told you about permotions, Pat? 'Twas your steppin' up that give Moike his chance to show what he could do. And Moike was ready for it. Chances don't do n.o.body no good that ain't ready for 'em. Andy there is a-watchin', I know."

The frail little fellow smiled. There was some light on the group, thrown from the electric light tower, but not enough to show the wistfulness of the boy's face, and the widow burned no oil in summer.

Privately, Andy was afraid chances would not do him much good.

"Why," continued the widow, "even the little b'ys, Barney and Tommie, was a-watchin' the other day for chances. 'Twas them that wanted to be takin' the job of drivin' the cows from Andy and Jim, and leavin' their geese to do it, too. There's big b'ys, I'm thinkin', that's after cows when geese would be better suited to 'em."