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(Original
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
T 0 a MOCKING BIRD.
by WM. c. RICHAEDB
- love thy day-proclaiming song,
That to my half-awaken’d ear,
n . w j t h fresh sweetness to prolong,
Ti,r music which in dreams I hear —
0r . 1! :e melodies from some sweet lute,
“ As if by fairy fingers swept;
, r lhe |nw breathings of a flute,
S.ibditing me till 1 have wept—
0r j„ my dream have seemed to weep,
,r when thy voice hath broke the spell,
I find no trace of tears in sleep,—
Moved by the strains I love so well!
u, l it is sweet to hear thy lay .
When young Aurora proudly flings
\ ,rht’s shadows back, and brings the day
On gold and purple-tinted wings ;
When, through the Eastern portal bright,
The Sun advances on his track,
L| heaven’s vast concave glows with light,
| Till Earth reflects the glory hack :
L. a ir is voiced with myriad songs,
Which on ti e morning zephyrs float,
|> ,t fur the sweetest charm belongs,
I Fair mock-bird, to thy varied note !
What moveth thee, sweet vocalist,
To mock thy race with tireless tongue 1
\ t thou a senseless parodist ?
Hast aught original e’er sung ?
o r art thou, as I should suppose,
i wit —a satirist ? perchance
The Mourns of thy race—who knows ?
I think there’s mischief in thy glance,
Whene’er 1 catch thy small bright eye
Turned on me from the greenwood spray ;
IV true, to hear thee sometimes sigh,
I’d think thou pinest life away !
Hut when, with sympathizing heart,
I list the sadness of thy strain,
Thou hast begun another part—
And laugliest merrily again !
Perhaps thou art a scholar, learned
In all the languages of birds,
And now thy gifted mind hast turned
To teaching Hedgings avial words:
I, ii art—if 1 have guessed the truth,
An indefatigable master,
For never luckless village youth
Had lessons longer set—and faster !
But no 1 I have it now—thou art
An actor-bird—and every day,
Eehearsest carefully thy part,
On some aerial stage to play:
Thou hailest of the cotnic genus
Thy sole profession is to mock ;
And let mo tell thee, bird—between us—
Tuou wearest gracefully the Sock:
; and I but find the theatre,
The greensward stage where thou dost
play,
; leave the world awhile, and there,
Full often pass an hour away—
To see thee and thy “company”
A merry set they are, I ween,)
Put forth their powers of minstrelsy,
With gentler strains the “acts” between !
And tell me merry mocking bird—
If ever on the greenwood stage,
Thou mimickest the sounds thou’st heard
Below thee, in this noisy age?
iDoit show up scenes where men are made
To play before the avial throng ?
Tetlunks ’(would quite improve thy trade,
And vary much thy wondrous song,
To “get up” on some rare occasion,
A farce, such as “a public meeting,
Lshow the interests of the nation,”
Or better still, —a great “Lind” greeting.
N twit! no twit!” thou answerest,
W ell, that is what I quite expected ;
liu knowest thine own business best,
And would not be for worlds, detected
j 0 twitting of thy secret things,
T o one impertinent as I;
fut it I had a pair of wings—
I Id sate my curiosity ;
tia, I'll he content to hear
I by sweet rehearsals, actor bird ;
ii le Fancy makes each note appear,
lo mv wrapt sense—a comic word !
-r. irj,„
Os itonj tT'tilrr.
From the Dublin University Magazine.
GRACE KENNEDY.
CHAPTER I.
“as on a raw evening in Deeem
183—, just after dusk, that a wild-
Mll - haggard man entered a little
’ near the side of a by-road be-
II Hollywood and Esear, in the
r e s County.
ell, what have you got?” cried
voice from the interior of the
“hidt proceeded from a woman,
iiing over a turf fire, burning dim
tloTn ‘ho damp of the material
“ c eu on it.
L 0 nothing?” she asked again,
taviug received an answer to her
r;‘‘ er query.
•Nothing! was the sullen rejoinder,
II ‘"an, approaching the fire, drew
‘ en stool to him and sat down
~ sr the ashes; on one side of him
~|ll;d e half sitting, half lying,
1 the corner of the recess in
“as the fire, her covering being
• fi'fti blanket on her shoulders,
1 r Agged black petticoat about her
opposite to her were two little
1 vii. from about three to five years,
. I:i ger altogether naked; the other
I Lagged piece of linen hanging
L' 11 , • both crouching over the burn
’ ‘jt- looking up to the man with
p.‘ :u 'h- inquiring eyes.
a short silence, the woman
. ’I hessod her husband, for such
io relation of the parties—
did ye get no work?”
..ij e sorra bit.”
Asn’t Mr. liawson at home ?”
I 1 ® was.”
Ip Well?”
‘’ 1 ‘An made no answer,but asked—
'h lere,s the old pot ?”
“ (I!ii aii sprang to her feet, and
,j lt . over an old pot, w'ith a trian
-1.. i ce broken out at the side.
, ( ‘lI, honey,” she said, inasooth
s * “ice.
I 111:111 P u t his hand in his pocket,
1e ” out a dead fowl, with the neck
k imi m mkk mwm m im mn mb mk mb m mm ml iimusii®.
twisted. The children uttered a cry of
delight.
“Here, Father,” said the woman,
“go an’ wash the pot, and bring some
clean wather out of the hole—half-full,
Father.”
The urchin darted oft.
The man had by this time drawn
some turnips out of his other pocket,
and handed them to her.
“ Yer a good man the day, Father
Kennedy. \Y e have something, at any
rate.”
And she busied herself in cutting up
the turnips, and put them and the fowl,
unplucked, on the fire, when the boy
brought in the pot.
“ Tell us, Father, agra, how did ye
get it ?” she said putting on more turf,
and again cow r ering over the fire.
© ©
“ Let me alone,” he said, harshly ;
“ye have it—there ; isn’t that enough
for ye ?”
“Had Rawson no work?” she con
tinued, changing the subject.
“ No, he hadn’t; yet he tuk in the
two Byrnes last week. He gave me a
penny, and tould me to go to the poor
house, he added, with a scornful laugh.
“ Give us the penny,” she whined,
coaxingly; “ it’ll do for male in the
mornin’.”
lie looked at her for a moment.
“ It’s not worth givin’ or houldin’,”
he said, as he threw it to her.
A noise was heard outside the door.
“Here’s the children,” she said. “Let
none ot yez say what’s in the pot.”
A little girl entered, hardly better
dressed than those before described : a
ragged cotton frock, with a dirty handker
chief round her, was her only covering;
her age might be eight or twelve; from
the emaciated state of her face—unnat
urally pale from the glare of a dim
rush-light it was not easy to form an
exact idea. Her eyes were blue, her
hair light—that colour which deepens
to a pretty brown in womanhood.
“ Well, Grace, is that you?” said her
father—the first uncalled words he had
yet spoken.
“ Yis, father dear, it’s me. Ah, bud
it’s cowld,” she continued, getting be
tween the little ones at the fire.
“Did ye bring nothin’ wid ye?” cried
her mother, sharply.
“ It’s down the road,” she said ; “the
sack was big, an’ 1 got tired, so 1 left
it in the ditch, as 1 seen the light in the
house, an’ knew father was here, an’
he’d go back and bring it in.
“That 1 will, alannah,” replied the
man, rising. “Whereabouts is it?”
“Just at the ould mile-stone, this
side of the bridge, down in the ditch.”
It was speedily brought, and the con
tents emptied on the floor. Potatoes
and skins of the same, the inside want
ing though, turnips, cabbage, bones,
meal, and rags tumbled out.
“ ’llaith, Grace, you’re a wondher,
entirely,” said her mother, in a tone of
commendation.
“ Ye’ve a good dale, Grace, darlint,”
said her father, half mournfully.
“An’ didn’t stale a ha’porth there,”
cried the little girl.
“Ye didn’t stale it; an’ how did ye
get all this ? ye bought them, maybe?”
—asked her mother, with a sneer.
“ No, mother ; I went to a big house
a long ways off, an’ the masther seen me
first, an’ he brought me in to give me
a bit in the kitchin ; and thin the mis
thress gave me the old duds, an’ the
servants the rest; an’ ”
“An’ what ?” said her mother, seeing
her hesitate.
“An the little one gev me this”—
showing a sixpense as she spoke.
The mother snatched it from her.
“Arrah, Grace, bud yer a rale darlint,
the day.”
Her father drew her towards him,
and kissed her.
“ Ye stole nothin’ the day, thin alan
nah machree ?” he asked.
The girl did not answer; she fixed
her large eyes on her father, as if she
sought silently to tell him something.
The mother turned round—
“ Answer yer father, will ye ? —have
ye nothin’ more ?”
The girl drew out of her bosom a
handsome cap, all crumpled.
“ I stole this,” she said.
The mother attempted to take it also.
“ I got it as I was goin’ up to the big
house, on the hedge, near the avenue,
an’ it belongs to thim, an’ I am goin’
to lave it back to-morrow,” said the
girl, eagerly.
“Lave it back, indeed?” cried her
mother, standing up, and taking it
from her. “ A bran new cap, 1 de
clare !—the lady’s I’m sure!—lace an’
fine ribbon ! —lave it back ? ’llaith, yer
no sich fool.”
“ Ah. mother!” pleaded the little
girl, “they’re good people—ye would’nt
stale from thim yourself; sure they
gave me all thim; and there was a
poor ould man wint up after me, an’
maybe they’ll think it’s him that took
it.”
“An’ let thim—who cares?” answer
ed her mother, still examining the cap.
“ Ah, mother, darlin’! give it to me,
an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ as good ;
let me give it back to the lady.”
“ Divil a fut ye’ll go wid it, there.”
“Ye may as well give the child the
cap,” said the husband.
“ Is it to have me ’rested, and put in
jail, ye want, Father ? Arrah, man, are
ye a fool, at all, at all ?”
This silenced him ; but the child still
importuned for the cap,
“ Go along wid ye,” said her mother,
striking her; “go an’ blow’ the fire, till
we ate our supper.”
The girl whimpered, and proceeded
to her task.
Soon after a lad of thirteen or four
teen came in, with a sack on his back,
which he threw on the floor as he came
in.
“Well, Mick, acushla, yer welcome.
What have ye to-night ?”
“ Faix, ye have a bit o’ mate, an’
some praties and cabbage from ould
Worrell's garden.”
“An’ the mate, Mick, honey, how did
ye get it?”
“ Oh, give me my supper fust, an
thin I’ll tell you.”
The pot was boiled by this time, or
sufficiently so for them, and they took
out the fowl, pulled off the feathers,
and divided it between the father and
mother, and the boy last named, giving
a little bit to the girl, which the father
added to from his share. The mother
gave the little things some turnips, and
told them to roast some potatoes for
themselves in the ashes.
“ Where’s Ned, 1 wondher?” asked
the father.
“ Bad luck to him!” said the mo
ther; he’s always last, and niver has a
ha’porth; and when he does get any
thing, it’s into throuble he brings us for
it.”
“ He’s so small,” urged the girl.
“Arrah don’t be talkin’; aint he as
big as you ?” said the mother, angrily.
The object of the con versation here
appeared at the door —a little child of
seven or eight years, with only a rag
ged pair of trowsers and an old shirt on
him.
lie stood shivering at the door, with
a little bag in his hand, empty ; one
would think he had heard what they
said.
“ Come in, Ned,” said his sister, who
first saw him.
“ \\ ell,” said his mother, savagely,
“where’s what you got ? —where’s your
bag ?”
“ I couldn't get anything all day,”
he whimpered.
“Ye dirty vagabone ?” cried his mo
ther, starting up, and culling him on the
head and ears, “is this the way yer to
go on always ? Ye’d rather be fed here
for nothin’, an’ do nothin’ for yerself;
night after night the old story —the
empty bag, an’ ‘1 couldn’t get anything.’
Were ye at Worrell’s?” she asked
fiercely.
“ 1 was,” he sobbed.
“An’ ye could get nothin,?” she
again asked. “ Will ye answer, ye
blackguard ?” she continued, as the boy
cried on.
“We niver take there,” he sobbed
again.
“We!” she repeated after him ; “an’
who’s we, ye omedhaun ? Have I
nivir tould you not? And why don’t
you take there ?” she continued, mim
icking him.
“ Because,” said he again, still sob
bing, “they give us our dinner.”
“And who’s us ?”
“ Grace an me.”
“Come, my man, none of yer nice
humbug; out wid ye, and don’t dar’
come in here without yer share. Come,
be oft'.’’
“Ah, mother!” cried Grace, spring
ing up, “don’t ax him to go to-night—
it’s could, an’ wet —don’t ax him—sure
he’s small.”
“Lave me alone,” she cried ,her an
ger rousing her—“he must go. I’ll
tache him to come in again this way.
Out, ye cur!”
“ Let him ate a bit first, thin, mother
jewel.”
“ Divil a taste, till he brings his bit.
Come, out wid ye !” she shouted.
“Arrah, Katty, can’t ye let the child
alone?” said her husband.
“Ilould yer tongue, and ate yer sup
per,” said she; “and don’t crass me,
I’d advise ye.”
The poor child still lingered at the
door—the mother rushed at him, and
he disappeared.
“ I’ll go wid him,” cried Grace, about
to follow.
“ Will ye ?” said her mother, giving
her a slap. “Go sit down, an’ don’t
stir again widout my lave.”
The poor little girl sat down in the
chimney-nook, sobbing bitterly.
“Sure we had enough widout his
share,” said the father.
“Much ye know,” answered his wife.
“ Is that the way ye’d have me bring
up the ehildre, in idleness—walkin’
about all day, an’ nothin’ home at
night ? I’ll tache them, I’ll engage.”
They finished their meal, and lay
down on some straw, covering them
selves with clothes and rags of blan
kets. They all huddled together—the
children at their parents’ feet. They
slept; Grace was still awake—still cry
ing within herself. She got up softly,
and looked out; dark as pitch, and no
sign of her little brother ! She crouch
ed over the remains of the fire, and
every few moments went to the door
and looked out. Still the absent one
came not. Grace looked at the wet
turf, smouldering by degrees to ashes;
the half-burned sod, growing smaller
and smaller, crumbling away—a little
red here and there, just showing how it
went; at last ’twas out, and then a heap
of ashes in its place—now warm, less
warm, cold, and colder—till at last as
cold as the clay floor it rested on. So
Grace watched ; and in her grief forgot
to keep alive the embers she had raked
up from the ashes; each one burned
slowly away and disappeared ; and so
she watched, and, watching, slept.
She dreamt. She thought her little
brother came in, his little bag empty
still, but all wet and black ; the water
running from his hair, and down his
cheeks, and neck, and little shirt—all
wet; and still he looked at her, and
smiled. She wandered in her dream ;
and his darling blue eyes looked into
hers, so happily, as they used to do long
ago; she wished to speak, but could
not; and still he looked at her so pleas
antly ; she tried to get up and go to
him, and awoke crying.
He was not there ; but the first dawn
of day streamed through the little win
dow. She put her hand where the fire
had been—ali heat gone—the ashes
cold as stone. She was very cold her
herself, She loooked out again for Ned
—no sign yet. “ He’ll soon come
now,” she thought; for the daylight
still came on ; the stars one by one
were lost. She went back to the house
—all slept still; her mother, roused
up by the draught from the open door,
muttered to her to shut it, and slept
again. Grace closed the door, and, go
ing to the little broken window-hole,
still watched. Still the day dawns,
brighter and brighter still. Two men
are coming down the road—they w r alk
rather slowly—they are carrying a sack
between them; they get over the ditch,
into the bog opposite the hovel; one of
them is yonng Worrell, and the other
his servant-boy.
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, NOY. 2, 1850.
“It’s not a sack they have—’tis a boy!
—it must be Ned.”
Grace rushed out; a few bounds
brought her to the men —it was Ned.
Oh ! there was a scream, a long, long
scream, and then another; and then
the pent-up anguish of her soul found
vent in tears. It was Ned. poor little
Ned ! The men laid him down—he
was wet and dirty—his eyes shut —his
face wet, and pale, and cold. Foor lit
tle boy—he was quite dead. And the
little girl knelt by his side, and held
his moist hand so cold, and kissed the
dirt from his lips, and called for Ned,
“her brother, alannah machree !” “her
brother jewel!” “her darling!” but
Ned awakened not; and the men stood
by and wiped the corner of their eyes
with their coat-sleeves.
The father had come out and the
Guest boy ; *he former ran up and
looked at the corpse —he said nothing;
he raised it in his arms and bore it to
the house ; his wife still lay asleep; he
laid the body on the floor.
“ Get tip !” he said to her, shaking
her arm.
“ Let me alone, will yez?”’ she cried,
half asleep.
“ Get up !” he said, sternly, taking
her in his arms, and putting her in a sit
ing posture.
“Arrah, bad luck” She stopped,
her eyes opened. There was the corpse
at her feet, and the circle round it in
silence. She burst into a loud cry,
rocking herself to and fro.
“We found him in a bog-hole near
our house,” said young Worrell, as he
went away.
CHAPTER 11.
There they were : the father, with his
arms folded leaning against the wall,
near the fire-place, looking with a stare
of vacancy on the face of his dead child;
the mother, still sitting on the bed,
whining, and rocking herself, with her
head on her knees; the two younger
children, kneeling on the straw at the
foot of the bed, looking at the corpse;
the eldest son leaning against the door
sill. with his hand in his pocket, looking
out listlessly on the beautiful morning;
and Grace knelt beside the body. She
no longer cried aloud, but the tears
rolled silently down her cheeks; the
large drops one after another poured
from her eyes ; she took one hand in
hers, and gazed at the little pale face
before her; and then from time to time
she put her other hand on his breast,
or raised the closed eyelid, and then
moved it quickly away, as the dull,
cold eye met her view—that eye which
used to smile so lovingly on her. Or
she would open his lips ; whatever lit
tle red was in them once, quite blanch
ed away ; and then another passionate
burst of inward grief, as she kissed
again and again that dear mouth, never
more to press hers in answer. At last
the mother looked up.
“ What’s the girl whinin’ for?” she
asked, harshly. “Will that’bring him
back? Arrah, who let the fire out?”
she continued, looking round at the
hearth. “Go along, Grace, and get
some kindlin’ over at Micky Byrne’s;
sure we can’t stay here in the eowld.”
A stifled sob eseaped the child; she
appeared as if she heard not.
“Will ye go?” said her mother
again, imperatively. “God knows the
little varmint is no loss, anyhow.”
Grace, with a scream of agony, threw
herself on the body.
“ x\h, woman !” said her husband,
“ howld yer tongue. The poor gor
soon’s gone ; let him lie in pace.”
The woman commenced an angry re
joinder, but changed it into her former
whine, as a step was heard approaching
the door, and a stout, respectable-look
ing man, followed by young Worrell,
passed the boy t,t the door, and enter
ed the hovel.
“ Och ! Misther Worrell! Misther
Worrell ! Misther Worrell!” scream
ed the woman, rocking herself on the
bed—“Och, my poor boy ! an’ he’s
gone from us, my fair-haired little child!
O, what’ll I do?—what’ll Ido ? Look
at him, Misther Worrell, the little dar
lint. An” he out lookin’ for a bit to
ate, the cratur, and nivir kern near us,
an we wondherin what was keepin’ him.
An’ thin’ dhrowned in a bog-hole. O,
wirrasthrue ! what’ll become of me, at
all, at all ?”
The eyes of the good man addressed
were full of tears, as he turned to the
father, and said—
“ Kennedy, I’m very sorry for you.
It’s a sad accident; but sure it’s the
Lord’s will. Mrs. Kennedy he contin
ued, “don’t take on so —be resigned to
the will of Providence. It was a poor
end for the little fellow'. And Grace,
dear, you have lost your companion.
Send her up, Mrs. Kennedy, in the
course of the day, to my wife : 1 dare
say she has something for you.”
“ Thankee, sir,” said the woman.—
“May the Lord of heavenpporerw r er a bles
sin’ on you and on yer family.”
“ And, Kennedy,” continued Mr.
Worrell, “you know we must have the
coroner here; just a form, you know
—accidental death, of course. Don’t
look frightened, Mrs. Kennedy; it’s
only just a form—necessary, though, in
a case of this sort. I’m going down to
Escar. and I’ll mention it to the police
there. Maybe the coroner will be here
to-day; if not, it will be early in the
morning. And you’ll want a coffin,
too, Kennedy; I’ll just tell Jem Flynn,
as I’m going down, to make one. And,
Mrs. Kennedy,” he added, going, “don’t
forget to send Grace dowm to our house.”
“ May the poor man’s blessin’ be
wid you this day!” said Kennedy,
warmly.
“ May God’s blessin’ rest upon you
an’ yours forever!” shouted Mrs. Ken
nedy after him.
As soon as the footsteps w T ere lost
leaving the house, she turned to her hus
band—
“ Father, man, sure you’re not goin’
to stan’ there all day, are ye ? Come,
start off, agra ; go over to Rawson’s,
an’ tell them the story—an’ tell it well
mind. Ye’ll get yer breakfast, any
way, and yer day’s work and dinner,
too, I’ll go bail. We’ll not waut you
at the ’quest. Come, man, go ; we’ve
: nothin’ worth talkin’ of for breakfast
here, and yell be sure to get somethin’
there.”
The man in silence took his hat, and
went slow ly out.
“ Come, Grace,” she resumed, in a
milder tone than before, “ dart oft’ to
Micky Byrne’s for the kindlin’. There,
run, and take the pot with you.”
As the little girl went she called her
eldest son, and handed him the sixpence
that Grace had brought in the night be
fore.
“Here, Mick avourneen, go up to the
shop, and buy a twopenny loaf, a pen’-
ortli of butter, a pen’orth of sugar,
three hap’orth oftay, an i a hap-orthof
milk; an’ don’t hurry yourself too
much, till I send Grace to Worrell’s
whin she brings in the fire.”
Mick departed, and soon after Grace
came in with the lighted turf in the pot.
“There, that’s a girl,” said her mo
ther. “Now go up to Mrs. Worrell,
and she’ll give ye yer breakfast; an’
ax her for a sheet to lay him out wid,
an’ some candles ; an’ may be ye’d get
a grain o’tay to watch him by. But hur
ry up now.”
The little girl, subdued and silent,
did her bidding.
When she was gone, her mother
bustled about, laid the dead body on
the bed in the corner, kindled up the
fire, got some water, and put it to boil
in the old pot; took a dirty teapot
from a corner, and a broken cup and
cracked bowl, and laid them on a three
legged stool, supported on a sod of
turf, in front of the fire. The two lit
tle children resumed their place in the
chimney-nook, following their mother
with their eyes, everywhere she turned.
The water boiled as Mick entered.
“Just in time, my darlin’, every
thing's ready. Where’s the tay, till I
wet it ? Draw the stone over and sit
down. Begor that’s fine sugar ; but,
be aisy, what sort of butther is this ?
Haith, its half suet. Show us the milk
an’ the bread ; but it’s stale—two days
ould, I’m sure. Here, alannah, take a
bit ol stick an’ toast a bit. 1 don’t think
the stale bread agrees wdd me, an’ the
butther’s only middlin. Make room
for the tay-pot, till I put it to stew. —
Nowq Mick a hagur, you must mind
and say, whin the crowner, comes here,
how that Ned wint out in the mornin’
to look for his bit, as we were all star
vin’, and that we didn’t see a sight of
him till they carried him in this mornin’.”
“O, lave me alone,” answered the
boy, cunningly ; “won’t I make a mo
vin’ story. Ain Ito cry ?”
“Ay, a little, but spake plain at first.
But il they go to ax ye too many ques
tions, ye must cry so that ye’ll not be
able to spake.”
“ I hat’s enough,” said lie, winking.
“ An’,ehildre,” she continued, turning
to the little ones, “ was Ned here last
night ?”
“ Yes, mother,” said they both.
“No he wasn’t!” she shouted.
“ Now answer me, was Ned here last
night ?”
“No he wasn’t,” said they hesita
tingly.
“When did yez see him last ?”
“1 seen him ” said Feter.
“ Yesturday mornin’,” suggested his
mother.
“Yesturday mornin’,” echoed Peter.
“Come now', say it again. When did
you see Ned last ?”
“Yesturday mornin’.”
“Katty?”
“ Yesturday mornin’,” she replied.
“ Give us the tay, mother,” said
Mick, beginning to get tired of the in
struction.
So she poured out and tasted it.
“ That’s rail good, faix,” she said, sip
ping it; “an’ I’m expecting Mrs. Wor
rell will give us some more. Be dad,
we’ll make somethin’ by Neddy now
that he’s dead, more than we did when
he was alive, at any rate.”
And so the mother and son took their
buttered toast and tea, with the drown
ed son and brother lying beside them !
And so they joked upon his death—the
mother and son—and she the cause of
it! And so they sat by their little fire,
eating their comfortable breakfast, hav
ing sent out the father and daughter to
beg the meal! And so the mother
catechized the children in lying and
dishonesty, bringing them up as dark
spots to taint the fair face of God’s cre
ation.
The coroner came, and the police, and
the neighbours, and Mr. Worrell, and
young Worrell, and the labourer who
found the body, and with some difficul
ty they collected a jury.
Young Worrell, an intelligent lad of
nineteen, was examined, and related
that he and a servant boy of his father’s
had accidentally found the body that
morning, as they w r ere going to work;
that they had been attracted to the bog
hole by the barking of their little dog,
who had found his cap.
And Mick and his mother were
sworn, and, with every appearance of
bitter grief, deposed that the little boy
had gone out to beg on the morning of
the day before, and was not seen by
any of them till he was brought in life
less by Worrell.
So the jury considered, and agreed,
that the child was returning home after
dark, had mistaken the path, and had
fallen into the hole ; they, therefore, af
ter a few’ moments, returned a verdict
of accidental death.
And they all went away, and the
family w'ere left alone again with the
corpse. The little children again cow -
ered around the fire, and Mick stood in
the corner of the chimney nook. And
the mother sat over the fire, her elbows
resting on her knees, and her hands sup
porting her chin, rocking herself to and
fro. And Grace stood in the far cor
ner, again crying within herself. And
the solitary candle against the vvall shed
a dim mournful light through the
cabin; and the dead boy lay on the
floor where he had been placed for the
inquest.
There was the perjured mother that
killed her child ; who there, before her
other children, had sw'orn to a lie ;
the mother that brought them with
pain into this world of sin ; —the human
mother, placed by the Almighty as the
natural guide to lead her offspring on
the way to heaven ; —this mother teach
ing them the path direct to hell; —the
mother, the bane or blessing of the
child ; for as she is, so will he be.
Grace sat in the corner, still crying;
her mother stood up and approached
her ; she seized her by the shoulder—
“Go along,” she said, “an’ wash that
brother of yours, bad luck to him! and
lay him out, and then put on the tur
nips. Will ye stir?” she continued,
pushing her. “Come Mick, agra,” said
she, as Grace prepared to do w hat she
had told her, “ I’m goin’ out. Will ye
come ?” And wrapping a tattered
cloak about her head, she left the house,
followed by her eldest boy. And
Grpce washed her little brother and laid
him out, and lit the other candle Mrs.
Worrell had given her; and produeed
a bit of brown bread, which she divi
ded between Peter and Katty ; and
put on the turnips, and gave the little
things their supper, and put them to
bed ; and they went to sleep. She sat
by the fire to watch. She w'as not cry
ing now'. She thought, where was her
father—he was not coming in. He
might have fallen into a hole too. And
then she cried. Again she thought—
where was Ned gone —how’ did Ned
die—would it not be better for her to
go with him, away from trouble ? And
she looked over at the dead boy, and
cried again. And her eyes rested on
the two living children—their eyes shut
too, lying without noise. And she
thoughtagain, w'ere they not all asleep?
and two would awake, but One would
sleep on. And so Grace pondered
within herself, and cried, and thought
end dozed—then dreamed, and woke to
cry again.
At last the door was pushed open,
and her brother Mick came in, sup
porting her mother, drunk, hardly able
to walk.
“ Ye hell-hound —bra—t,” she stut
tered to Grace ; “ wh—at are ye d—d
—oin’ there ?” And making a blow at
her, she fell on the floor.
Mick lifted her to the bed, and after
a few inarticulate words she fell asleep.
Mick lay down beside her and slept too;
and the little girl was again alone. —
Where was her father,she thought—out
the whole night. And the wind blew,and
the rain pelted against the house, and
he came not. Where could he be? —
And Grace thought on, and cried. The
candles burnt down—the wicks grew
longer and longer, and the light dim and
more dim; and a kind of awe stole over
Grace. She felt afraid, she knew not
of what. She was very sleepy,too; and
there was no room for her on the straw.
And she went over to her brother, and
stooped to kiss him. How cold were
the lips ! And she lifted the littlebody
over to the fire, and took his hand from
under the sheet, and clasped it in hers,
and nestled down on the hearth beside
him, and fell asleep—the dead body
her companion—the cold clay giving
her confidence in the solitude of night!
CHAPTER 111.
The day was just breaking, when
Grace awoke. There was her little
brother’s ghastly face just beside hers.
In spite of herself she shuddered, and
let go his hand; but then, as if ashamed
she kissed him again and again.
She replaced the body in the corner
and glanced at the sleepers. All were
silent still. She observed something
white amongst the straw near her mo
ther’s head ; she looked close; it was
the cap she had stolen. “ Shall I take
it ?” she thought. She put her hand
out —no one stirred—she had it. She
opened the door gently, and ran out to
hide it under a furze-bush. The chil
dren soon awoke; her mother still slept
heavily on. There were some turnips
left since the night before—she heated
them for their breakfast.
Mick took his bag and went out.
Her mother still slept, and her father
came not yet.
And so they waited at the fire. —
Grace told the children little stories,
and they forgot their hunger. And
then, as they laughed in their childish
glee, she would cry, and point to their
dead brother, and they were hushed,
At last her father came ; she sprang
to meet him, and he stooped and kissed
her. A man followed him with a cof
fin. Grace knew what it was for. She
cried again ; Ned was going home!—
They put him into the coffin—they put
on the lid.
“ Ah, father, dear !’’’ she cried, rush
ing to it, “wan look more, just wan.”
She pushed the lid oft’ and knelt
down and kissed his face.
“Ned, honey, your goin’; I’ll nivir
see you again. Ned, achorra, we’ll
nivir go out again in the mornin’ to
look for a bit to ate. It’s by myself
I’ll go now. Ned, darlint, ye’ll lie aisy
—wont ye ?” And she smoothed and
settled his head. “ Och, jewel of my
heart, I wish I was with ye.”
And with a passionate burst of grief
she threw herself on the body. Her
father lifted her off; the carpenter put
on the lid and nailed it; the noise
awoke the sleeping mother; she sat upon
the bed and looked on in silence. Her
husband approached her.
“ Here, Katty,” said he, “ I’m in
work at Mr. Rawson’s, and here’s some
thin’ for you,” handing her a sixpence
at the same time.
She took it from him but said noth
ing. Kennedy then took his daughter’s
hand, and followed the carpenter and
the coffin out of the house.
The old churchyard was about a mile
away, near Hollywood. They found a
little grave dug, and Worrell’s servant
standing beside it; a couple of neigh
bours went with them ; the coffin was
put in the ground and covered in.—
Grace cried in silence. It was all filled
up; the sods were laid on the top —
Ned was gone home.
“ Now, Grace,” said her father, “ I
must go to my work. Go home to yer
mother, an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ in
the evenin’.”
When Grace returned to the house
her mother was not there.
“ Pather,” she asked, “ where’s mo
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 27 WHOLE NO 127.
therf’
“ Gone to the shop,” answered he
“for bread for us; Katty an’ me is to
wait here till she conies.”
“ Wait, then, quite, like good child re,
wont yez? an’ tell mother that I’ll be
back soon,” said Grace.
“Yis, Grace,” replied they
And Grace got the cap she had hid,
and started off for the place where she
had been two days before. A bright
eyed little girl and smiling boy were
playing in front of the hall-door.
“O, Charles !” said the former,
there’s the little girl was here the day
before yesterday. She has no bag to
day.”
“ W ell, little girl,” said the boy, ad
dressing her, “what do you want ?”
“ 1 want to see the misthress, if ye
plaze sir,” answered Grace curtseying.
“What do you want with her'?” ask
ed his companion.
“1 want to tell her something, Miss.”
“But you know you got a great deal
here the other day, little girl,” said the
boy ; “and you ought not to come so
soon again.”
“1 have somethin’ to give her,” per
sisted Grace.
“ Children, children !” cried a voice
from the hall-door, which had just open
ed. “Charles—June! come here!”
And the lady of the house came out on
the steps. “Well, my little girl, so
you want to speak to me. What have
you to say ?”
“Not to them,” said Grace, colour
ing, and pointing to the children.
“ Children go into the hall for a mo
ment. Well, now, what do you want?”
“Ye gave me a grate dale, lady, dear;
and—aud—here’s this,” she added,
bursting into tears, and pulling the cap
from her bosom.
The lady took it.
“ One of my caps,” she said, “ that
was stolen ! llow did you get it ?”
“ ’Twas me, ma’am, that took it,”
said Grace, sobbing.
“ And what tempted you to take it?
This cap could have been of no use to
you if you were hungry.”
“ Mother ’ud sell it, ma’am. An’
’twas cornin’ to the house 1 took it,
afore 1 knewn you; an’ I was goin’ to
put it on*the hedge afther, an’ there was
people lookin’, an’ I couldn’t; an’ thin
I thought it better to come an’ give it
to yerself.”
“And you came of your own accord?
—your mother did not send you ?”
“ Mother, ma’am ! Mother wanted
to keep it, but I took it this mornin’
whin she was asleep, an’ hid it to bring
it to you.
And the child looked up into the la
dy’s face,and the latter saw truth stamp
ed in the mournful blue eyes that look
ed into hers; and a tear quivered on
her own aye-lash as she turned towards
the house, and called her children.
“ Come here, Charles and Jane.—
You see this little girl. She was here
the day before yesterday, as you both
know, and received a great deal from
me. As shs was coming to the house
on that day, she was tempted to do
very wrong —she broke one of God’s
commands, and stole this cap. She
might have kept it w'ithout even being
suspected of the theft, for we thought
that it was the beggarman stole it.—
Well, this little girl was moved with
gratitude towards me, and, of her own
accord, brought back the cap to-day. 1
do not know if she is aware of the
great sin of which she has been guilty ;
but what 1 wish to call your attention
to is, the remembrance of a kindness,
and her modesty in confessing her fault.
Go, my little girl,” she continued, ad
dressing Grace, “go to the kitchen, and
I will send you something to eat.
The lady returned to the house with
her children, and ringing for the ser
vant, desired him to tell the cook to
give the little girl some food, and to let
her know when she had finished.
Presently the man entered, saying
that the girl wanted to go.
“Why, she had not time to eat any
thing,” observed his mistress.
“ She hasn’t eaten anything, ma’am;
she says she wants to take it home.”
“ Come, children, let us go and speak
to her.”
They found her in the kitchen, ty
ing up some bones and potatoes in an
old handkerchief.
“ Why won’t you eat anything, my
poor girl ?” asked the mistress of the
house.
“Ah, lady, I’m not hungry, an’ it’s
late, an’ a far way off, an’ an’ ”
And the remembrance of her little
brother stole across her mind, and she
burst into tears.
“ Don’t cry, don’t cry,” said the lady
kindly. “What’s the matter ? come,
now, tell me.”
And the voice of kindness went to
her heart —how little she knew it—and
she sobbed more bitterly.
“Come, dear, tell me,” said the lady
more kindly.
Poor Grace ! —the good lady called
her “dear”— her, the poor beggar-girl.
And the corresponding chord in her
own heart, till then unstrung, answered
the tender word! She screamed, as
she threw herself at the lady’s feet—
“ Ned, poor Ned, was drowned vestur
day, an’—an’—berried the day.” She
was choked with sobs. She knelt there
—the servants stood round her. There
was hardly a dry eye—the children
wept bitterly—the good old cook raised
her up.
“There, mavourneen, don’t take on
so. And your brother was drowned,
acushla machree? Is there any more
of ye?”
“Two little wans,” sobbed the girl.
“And, my poor child, you came over
here to return my cap on the day your
brother was buried,” said the lady, ac
tually crying herself.
“ Yis, ma’am,” answered Grace, not
exactly understanding why she should
not have come on that account. The
poor seldom allow the death of friends
to interfere with their occupations.
“ Where do you live, and what is
your name ?”
“ Grace Kennedy, ma’am; and I live
about four miles from this, beyant Es
car, near Mr. Worrell’s.”
“ Margaret,” said the lady, address-
ing her cook, “give her some broken
meat and potatoes,and let her go home.”
So Grace hurried home, and found
her father there, who had just arrived
before her. And the children had been
left all day by themselves, for their mo
ther had not been home at all; and their
fire had gone out; and there they cried
all day, cold and hungry.
How their eyes glistened when Grace
produced her store! She had not
touched a bit herself—she waited to eat
with them; so she set to \\g||k and
heated some, and the four haenrhappy
comfortable meal. Mick and his mo
ther arrived late—the latter again
drunk. Some brawling and abuse took
place, until she was at last persuaded
to goto bed. And Grace lay down be
side her little brother and sister, and
slept more happily than she had done
for some time.
To return to the family who had been
so kind to her.
The lady whose cap she had returned
was wife to a Mr. Saunders, agent to
a considerable property in the neigh
bourhood.
Little Grace had excited a warm in
terest in Mrs. Saunders’ heart. The
children had become quite fond of her,
and eager to learn how her little broth
er was drowned.
As the family sat round the fire, af
ter dinner, she mentioned the circum
stance to her husband.
“I do not think,” she continued, “that
it was an honest principle which in
duced her to return the cap, so much as
a fine feeling of gratitude, which would
not allow her to injure one who had
been kind to her ; but it is a fine noble
nature on which to graft good princi
ples. Do, dear John, let me try an
experiment with that little beggar-girl.
Let me take her from her poverty, and
bring her up as a servant, say, and see
what that fine disposition will be with
education. The expense will not be
great as she is quite old enough to be
useful in many ways in the house.”
“Oh, do, papa,” cried Jane, “and I
will hear her lessons.”
“I see no objection to your plan, El
len, if you wish,” answered Mr. Saun
ders ; “but 1 would recommend you to
make some inquiries relative to her pa
rents and their character. Where does
she live ?”
“ Beyond Escar,” she said, “ near a
Mr. Worrell’s.”
“Oh, I know Worrell very well; he
is a most respectable man, and will, I
dare say, be able to give us every in
formation. 1 have some business in
Hollywood to-morrow; 1 will drive
you round by Escar, if you wish, and
you can ask Worrell all about her.”
“ That will do exactly, John,” said
the lady as she left the dining-room.
The next day was wet, greatly to the
disappointment of the children; but
the day after the sun shone out beauti
fully, aud the whole party set out on
the car. Mr. Saunders did his business
in Hollywood, and then turned to go
hoipe by the Escar road. They learn
ed trom Mr. and Mrs. Worrell a full
and true account of little Ned’s death,
and also the cause of it, as appeared on
the inquest. Mrs. Worrell was loud
in her praise of Grace’s disposition, say
ing, what a pity it was that she had
such a bad example before her.
“ The father’s good enough,” said her
husbund, “if he had work, but the mo
ther’s a terrible bad woman. It was
only the other night—the very night
the little boy was buried—that I saw
her dead drunk at the shop.”
“ Shall we venture to rescue this
child from such depravity?” asked Mrs.
Saunders of her husband.
“ It will be hazardous,” he replied.
“We can see them, however. Where
is their house, Mr. Worrell?”
“ Why, sir, it hardly deserves the
name of a house. They live in a little
hovel about a hundred yards off the
road to Escar. I will go with you and
show it.”
“ Oh, pray do not think of it,” said
both lady and gentleman ; “send a boy
wi s h us ;it will do quite as well.”
“ Well, ma’am, if you’ll allow me
I’ll go myself, the boys are all at work,
and I’ve nothiug particular to do ; and,
to tell you the truth, 1 am rejoiced that
you are going to do something for our
little favourite, Grace, for she has real
ly ideas above the rest.”
So they set out towards Kennedy’s
abode, accompanied by the good-heart
ed farmer. As he walked by the side
of the car, Mrs. Saunders told him how
Grace had attracted her notice.
“ That is just wdiat I and my wife
have observed in her,” said Worrell—
“ a warm affection, and great thankful
ness for whatever little kindness is done
to her.”
They approached the hovel; it was
a desolate-looking place; the straight
road on for a long way, and on each
side bog and heather; nothing to break
the eye but the black turf-clamps here
and there.
“There’s the honse,” said Mr. Wor
rell, pointing in to the right off the road.
“That ?” said Mrs. Saunders, as they
looked towards what appeared at the
distance only a raised bank. “Is it pos
sible that human beings live there ?”
Yet so it was. Half stuck against a
turt bank, a little raised above it, were
the walls forming the hovel in which
the Kennedys dwelt; a hole in the top
for a chimney, and the door not above
four feet high, with a little hole in one
side for a window, the entire not higher
than six feet, roofed with large sods
taken from the bog; all round the house
bleak and cold; hardly a path to it.
“And here live beings such as we
are,” said Mrs. Saunders, turning with
a tearful eye to her husband—“ Chri
stians 4 with the same feeling, affections,
and perhaps talents, that we have if
they were only cultivated ; and look—
such a wretched, wretched hovel! I
could not imagine anything worse; and
so dreary and cold all round. O, does
it not teach us to value what we have,
when we not merely think of, but look
on the misery of others ! Dear John,
I should so like to go up to the house.”
“ My own love, it is very wet and
dirty ; you would be sure to catch cold.”
“ But I have strong boots on. Mr.