PAGE 14
May Flowers
by
“She told me another sad tale of being all alone and unable to work, and ‘as wake as wather-grewl, without a hap-worth av flesh upon me bones, and for the love of Heaven gimme a thrifle to kape the breath av loife in a poor soul, with a bitter hard winter over me, and niver a chick or child to do a hand’s turn.’ I hadn’t much faith in her, remembering my other humbug, but I did pity the old mummy; so I got some tea and sugar, and a shawl, and used to give her my odd pennies as I passed. I never told at home, they made such fun of my efforts to be charitable. I thought I really was getting on pretty well after a time, as my old Biddy seemed quite cheered up, and I was planning to give her some coal, when she disappeared all of a sudden. I feared she was ill, and asked Mrs. Maloney, the fat woman, about her.
“‘Lord love ye, Miss dear, it’s tuk up and sint to the Island for tree months she is; for a drunken ould crayther is Biddy Ryan, and niver a cint but goes for whiskey,–more shame to her, wid a fine bye av her own ready to kape her daycint.’
“Then I WAS discouraged, and went home to fold my hands, and see what fate would send me, my own efforts being such failures.”
“Poor thing, it WAS hard luck!” said Elizabeth, as they sobered down after the gale of merriment caused by Marion’s mishaps, and her clever imitation of the brogue.
“Now tell of your success, and the scarlet runner,” added Maggie.
“Ah! that was SENT, and so I prospered. I must begin ever so far back, in war times, or I can’t introduce my hero properly. You know Papa was in the army, and fought all through the war till Gettysburg, where he was wounded. He was engaged just before he went; so when his father hurried to him after that awful battle, Mamma went also, and helped nurse him till he could come home. He wouldn’t go to an officer’s hospital, but kept with his men in a poor sort of place, for many of his boys were hit, and he wouldn’t leave them. Sergeant Joe Collins was one of the bravest, and lost his right arm saving the flag in one of the hottest struggles of that great fight. He had been a Maine lumberman, and was over six feet tall, but as gentle as a child, and as jolly as a boy, and very fond of his colonel.
“Papa left first, but made Joe promise to let him know how he got on, and Joe did so till he too went home. Then Papa lost sight of him, and in the excitement of his own illness, and the end of the war, and being married, Joe Collins was forgotten, till we children came along, and used to love to hear the story of Papa’s battles, and how the brave sergeant caught the flag when the bearer was shot, and held it in the rush till one arm was blown off and the other wounded. We have fighting blood in us, you know, so we were never tired of that story, though twenty-five years or more make it all as far away to us as the old Revolution, where OUR ancestor was killed, at OUR Bunker Hill!
“Last December, just after my sad disappointments, Papa came home to dinner one day, exclaiming, in great glee: ‘I’ve found old Joe! A messenger came with a letter to me, and when I looked up to give my answer, there stood a tall, grizzled fellow, as straight as a ramrod, grinning from ear to ear, with his hand to his temple, saluting me in regular style. “Don’t you remember Joe Collins, Colonel? Awful glad to see you, sir,” said he. And then it all came back, and we had a good talk, and I found out that the poor old boy was down on his luck, and almost friendless, but as proud and independent as ever, and bound to take care of himself while he had a leg to stand on. I’ve got his address, and mean to keep an eye on him, for he looks feeble and can’t make much, I’m sure.’