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Fanny McDermot
by
“Why, do you Fanny? Say it then.”
“MY DEAR AUNT,
“I am clean discouraged. It seems as if Providence crowded on me. There is black disappointment, turn which way I will. I have had an offer to go to Orleans, and part pay beforehand, which same I send you herewith.
“Selina’s time draws near, and it is the only way I have to provide; so dear Aunt Sara, I think it my duty to go. I can’t summon courage to bid you good-bye. I can’t speak a word to her. I should not be a man again in a month if I tried. You have been a mother to me, Aunt Sara, and if God spares my life, I’ll be a dutiful son to you in the place of them that’s gone. If any thing happens to my poor wife, you will see to my child, I know,
“Your dutiful nephew, “JAMES McDERMOT.”New-York, 25 September, 1827.”
“I declare Fanny, you have said it right, date and all, and what a date it was to me, that 25th of September:—that day your father sailed—that very day you were born—and that very day, when the tide went out, your mother died;—life coming—life going—and the dear life of my last boy launched on the wide sea. My boy I always called your father; he was like my own sons to me. He lived just one week after he got to Orleans, and the news came Evacuation Day. We have always been, that is, the Rankin side, a dreadful family for dying young—all but me. I’ve lived to follow all my folks to the grave. My three boys I have seen laid in the ground; full grown, six feet men, and here I am, my strength failing, my eyes dim, working, shivering, trembling on.”
Poor little Fanny shivered too, and putting some more wood into the stove, she asked her aunt if it were not time for supper; but Mrs. Hyat, without hearing her, went on, rather talking to herself, than the child.”There has always been something notable about times and seasons, with our folks. I was born the day the revolutionary war was declared—my oldest was born the day Washington died; my youngest sister, your grandmother, Fanny, died the day of the Total Eclipse; my husband died the day that last pesky little war was declared; your father saw your mother the first time ‘lumination night, and as I said, it was Evacuation Day, we got the news of his death; poor Jemmy! what a dutiful boy he was to me! half my life went with his! How that letter is printed on your memory, Fanny! But you have better learning than ever I had, and that makes the difference! Learning is not all though, Fanny; you must have prudence. Did I not hear you talking on the stairs yesterday with some of them Irish cattle?”
“Yes, aunt, I was thanking Mrs. O’Roorke for bringing up my pail of water for me.”
“That was not it, ’twas a racket with the children I heard.” Fanny made no reply.”I won’t have it, Fanny; you’re no company for Irish, and never shall be; the Lord made ’em to be sure, that is all you can say for ’em—you can scarce call them human creturs.”
“They are very kind, Aunt Sara.”
“So are dogs kind, Fanny. I have moved, and moved, and moved to get into a house free of them, but they are varmint, and there is no getting away from them. It’s the Lord’s will that they should overrun us like frogs and locusts, and must be; but I’ll have no right-hand of fellowship with them. There I have set down my foot. Now, child, tell me what was all that hurry skurry about.”