“Oh,” said the youth, “paw’s mighty bad off. He’s been porely all spring. Now he’s down flat in bed and ailin’ stiddy. We’re feared paw’s powerful sick. He’s feared, too.” “Nonsense,” snorted the older man. “Your father isn’t sick—he only thinks he’s sick. Tell him I said so.” “Yessir, I will.” A fortnight later the same pair met again in the same place. “Billy,” said the citizen cheerily, “how’s your father now?” The youngster heaved a deep sigh: “He thinks he’s dead.” § 257 Bordering on the Unreasonable The hero of this story was one of those persons who accept whatever happens as a manifestation of the divine power. It was not for him to question the workings of a mysterious Providence. Misfortune dogged his footsteps, yet never once did he complain. His wife ran away with the hired man. His daughter married a ne’er-do-well who deserted her; his son landed in the penitentiary; a cyclone destroyed his residence, a hailstorm spoiled his crop and the holder of the mortgage foreclosed on his farm. Yet at each fresh stroke he knelt and returned thanks to the Almighty for mercies vouchsafed. Eventually, pauperized but still submissive to the decrees from on high, he landed at the county poorhouse. The overseer sent him out one day to plow a potato field. A thunderstorm came up but was passing by when without warning a bolt of lightning descended from the sky. It melted the ploughshare, stripped most of his garments from him, singed off his beard and mustache, branded him on the back with the initials of an utter stranger, and hurled him through a brush-fence. Slowly he got upon his knees, clasped his hands and raised his eyes toward heaven. Then, for the first time, the worm turned: “Lord,” he said, “this is gittin’ to be plum’ rediculous!” § 258 A Slight for the Kellys Somebody was reminded the other day—and, by the same token reminded me—of one that I hadn’t heard for at least ten years. The best authorities agree that a good story stands revival every five years. As the tale runs, the parish priest called on a well-to-do parishioner named Kelly, for a substantial contribution to the fund for purchasing a bronze bell for the church. Mr. Kelly was in a generous mood. He gave a larger sum than any other member of the congregation gave. The bell was purchased and installed. Meeting Mr. Kelly a few days later, the clergyman said: “What do you think of the new bell?” “I’m sorry I gave a cint,” said Mr. Kelly, shortly. “If I’d known what was goin’ to happen ye’d have had no money from me.” “You astonish me,” said the Father. “What’s wrong with it?” “I’ll tell ye what’s wrong with it,” said Mr. Kelly; “whin that bell rings do ye hear it speakin’ me name? Ye do not. All ye hear it sayin’ is: ‘_Doolan, Donlan, Donovan, Dugan!_’” § 259 The Luck of the Absentee