FullReads

I.

The old beggar women of Bantry streets had seldom showered their blessings upon a departing group of emigrants with such hearty good will as they did upon Mike Bogan and his little household one May morning.

Peggy Muldoon, she of the game leg and green-patched eye and limber tongue, steadied herself well back against the battered wall at the street corner and gave her whole energy to a torrent of speech unusual to even her noble powers. She would not let Mike Bogan go to America unsaluted and unblessed; she meant to do full honor to this second cousin, once removed, on the mother’s side.

“Yirra, Mike Bogan, is it yerself thin, goyn away beyant the says?” she began with true dramatic fervor. “Let poor owld Peg take her last look on your laughing face me darlin’. She’ll be under the ground this time next year, God give her grace, and you far away lavin’ to strange spades the worruk of hapin’ the sods of her grave. Give me one last look at me darlin’ lad wid his swate Biddy an’ the shild. Oh that I live to see this day!”

Peg’s companions, old Marget Dunn and Biddy O’Hern and no-legged Tom Whinn, the fragment of a once active sailor who propelled himself by a low truckle cart and two short sticks; these interesting members of society heard the shrill note of their leader’s eloquence and suddenly appeared like beetles out of unsuspected crevices near by. The side car, upon which Mike Bogan and his wife and child were riding from their little farm outside the town to the place of departure, was stopped at the side of the narrow street. A lank yellow-haired lad, with eyes red from weeping sat swinging his long legs from the car side, another car followed, heavily laden with Mike’s sister’s family, and a mourning yet envious group of acquaintances footed it in the rear. It was an excited, picturesque little procession; the town was quickly aware of its presence, and windows went up from house to house, and heads came out of the second and third stories and even in the top attics all along the street. The air was thick with blessings, the quiet of Bantry was permanently broken.

“Lard bliss us and save us!” cried Peggy, her shrill voice piercing the chatter and triumphantly lifting itself in audible relief above the din,–“Lard bliss us an’ save us for the flower o’ Bantry is lavin’ us this day. Break my heart wid yer goyn will ye Micky Bogan and make it black night to the one eye that’s left in me gray head this fine mornin’ o’ spring. I that hushed the mother of you and the father of you babies in me arms, and that was a wake old woman followin’ and crapin’ to see yerself christened. Oh may the saints be good to you Micky Bogan and Biddy Flaherty the wife, and forgive you the sin an’ shame of turning yer proud backs on ould Ireland. Ain’t there pigs and praties enough for ye in poor Bantry town that her crabbedest childer must lave her. Oh wisha wisha, I’ll see your face no more, may the luck o’ the Bogans follow you, that failed none o’ the Bogans yet. May the sun shine upon you and grow two heads of cabbage in the same sprout, may the little b’y live long and get him a good wife, and if she ain’t good to him may she die from him. May every hair on both your heads turn into a blessed candle to light your ways to heaven, but not yit me darlin’s–not yit!”

The jaunting car had been surrounded by this time and Mike and his wife were shaking hands and trying to respond impartially to the friendly farewells and blessings of their friends. There never had been such a leave-taking in Bantry. Peggy Muldoon felt that her eloquence was in danger of being ignored and made a final shrill appeal. “Who’ll bury me now?” she screamed with a long wail which silenced the whole group; “who’ll lay me in the grave, Micky bein’ gone from me that always gave me the kind word and the pinny or trippence ivery market day, and the wife of him Biddy Flaherty the rose of Glengariff; many’s the fine meal she’s put before old Peggy Muldoon that is old and blind.”