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THE BULLETIN OF THE CATHOLIC LAYMEN’S ASSOCIATION OF GEORGIA 5 CLERICAL LIFE; SOME OF ITS SERIOUS AND HUMOROUS SIDES By P. H. D. I suppose it is true of every priest that in recalling his experiences he meets with many instances which, even now after the lapse of many years, brings a smile to his face. Sometimes, more particularly in the country mis sions, he meets many difficulties and has a pretty hard time. But even here his life is not devoid of amusing incidents. I was ordained in 1873, and my first mission was in the town of N. 1 shall never forget my first sermon. I was terribly nervous. There was no pulpit, and 1 stood on the platform to preach. I did not know what to do with my hands. It would have been a tremendous relief if I could then have taken them off and put them on the altar. It seemed to me they were gradually growing longer and larger until at last they put me in mind of those sugar-cured hams covered with some yellow canvas which I saw in the stores. After Mass a good old Irish woman waited for me, and said: “Father, where were you born?” I was (and am yet) rather proud of the fact that I was born in Virginia, so I at once said: “I was born in Virginia.” “Oh!” she said, with a deprecatory shrug of the shoulders, and then added, “It’s a fine day we are having Father.” I saw the bitter disap pointment in the good woman’s face, and I added: “But my father and mother were both from the County Cork.” With a beaming face she said, “Well, Father, you’ll do. The town has lots of Corkeys.” My first sick call was another experience which I will not soon forget. I was just about going to my bedroom when the call came. I could hear a child sobbing at the door as I opened it. She begged me to hurry as her mother was dying. When I arrived at the door I found another tearful group. 1 asked what was the matter with their mother, and if they had sent for a doctor. The reply came from all: “Ma ate fried cabbage for supper and we sent first for you and then for the doctor.” I said, “You don’t need a Priest, put a mustard plaster on her,” and I retraced my steps. At the corner I met the doctor, whom I had not as yet met. He stopped me and said, “I’m Doctor Black and you are the new Priest, I suppose?” We shook hands, and then he asked me about the patient. I told him I had usurped his duties by prescribing, and when I related what I had done he laughed and said: -“Well, I expect you did right, jump into my buggy and I will drive you home.” The good woman recovered and my reputation as a spe cialist in fried cabbage disorders was firmly estab lished. I had neither sexton nor choir. I did the work of the first and gradually established the second. I know that comparisons are odious, but I had often heard the Papal Choir at Rome, but when my choir ren dered High Mass the first time, all that I can say is that I was entirely satisfied. The selection of a housekeeper is one of the great difficulties in clerical life. I had three while I was on my first mission. One in sisted that one evening while reading her prayer book her brother, who had been dead for seven years, walked into the room. She said it was a warning from the Lord for her to go back to New York. To tell the truth, I am very glad her brother came; she was a tearful soul, who would, for little or no reason, break into a veritable flood of tears. She confided to my sister that her family was of great standing in Canada. Her father, I believe, was Paul Pierre Falls, and she said Montmorency Falls, outside Quebec, were called after her family. My second venture was a woman of sixty-odd, who confided to me that she was in mortal dread of her husband, and left him to take the position at my house. She used to tell en quirers, “We don’t hear confessions before the last Mass,” etc. I often wished that I knew her husband’s address. I would assuredly have invited him to visit me. She left me because some savings bank presi dent stole her money, and she went after him. I don’t know if she found him. If she did, I know his wife became a widow. The third housekeeper looked as though pickles had been her ordinary diet. She was a middle-aged woman who had a positive hatred of tramps. The little town was infested by them, especially during the spring and fall seasons when they were going further South for work. I enjoyed very frequently the discomfiture of these knights of the road who boldly came demanding food or money, and who fled hastily on being confronted by an irate woman armed with a broom. A blacksmith named Flannigan lived a few doors from my home. He was an Ulster man, and a quiet, inoffensive fellow until he became drunk, which took place once a year, and then his anti-Catholic feelings were roused and he would go out and curse the Pope, the Priest and Catholics generally. One Saturday night about mid night he commenced operations by throwing his wife out of the house, and then followed the hurling chairs, tables and all portable furniture after her. His next move was to come in front of my house and curse the Pope and myself. We had closed a fair that night, and I only reached home a little before mid night, and so there was a bright light in my room. Flannigan remained there hurling choice Orange phrases at my head, when I heard the creaking of the back steps, and calling out, my housekeeper said: “It’s me, Father; I’m going to light a fire and get some boiling water to pour on the head of that blackguard out there who is cursing you.” She was very much disturbed when I told her to go back to bed and leave Flannigan alone. Societies have been formed in later years, for the purpose of supplying poor missions with vestments (Continued on Page 15.)