Irish Americans -- Juvenile fiction; Mothers and sons -- Juvenile fiction; Poor -- Juvenile fiction; Widows -- Juvenile fiction
But the happy light in her eyes was reflected on the face of her son as
he answered: "It's wantin' I am to be like him in everything, headstrong
and all. I'm not goin' to school to-day."
"And you needn't, Moike. I'll be ownin' to you now I didn't feel equal
to the washin', and that's the truth."
Mike nodded and went gayly into the house for warm water and the
clothes.
"There's more than one kind of a boy needed in a house," he said to
himself. "With seven of us mother ought to have 'em of all kinds. I'm
the one to be aisin' her. I'm built for it." And he rolled up his shirt
sleeves over his strong, muscular young arms.
"Now be careful," began Mike's first lesson in washing, "and don't waste
the soap and your strength a-tryin' to get the dirt out of the places
that ain't dirty. Rub where the rubbin's needed, and put the soap where
it's wanted. That's it. You're comin' on foine." And the widow resumed
her seat.
For a few moments she sat silent in thought. Then she said: "Do you know
what's the matter with this town, Moike? All the b'ys in it that wants
to work at all wants to do somethin' aisy, loike drivin' a delivery
wagon. Though the way they drive 'em ain't so aisy on the horses,
nayther. There's a lesson for you, Moike. Them that's so aisy on
themsilves is the very wans to be hard on iverything and iverybody. Them
that's got snail's feet of their own can't get a horse to go fast enough
for 'em, specially when the horse belongs to somebody else. And I'm jist
a-gettin' my courage up, Moike. I belave there'll be always something
for my b'ys to do, because my b'ys will _work_. And if they can't
get b'ys' work they'll do girls' work. Betwane you and me, Moike, I'm
proud of Pat. Have you heard the news? When school closes he's to have
two dollars a week, and three afternoons out all summer. And what do you
think Mrs. Brady says? She says she hain't had such help since she lived
in the East. She says she's restin', and she feels ten years younger.
That's your brother's work, Moike,--makin' a lady like Mrs. Gineral
Brady feel ten years younger. If there's aught to be ashamed of in that,
sure 'twould take a ninny to find out what it is. I'll warrant them
delivery b'ys' horses ain't feelin' ten years younger, anyway."
Mike's face showed that he relished his mother's talk; seeing which, she
went on: "You're doin' foine, Moike. Do you know there was a girl wanst
set to washin', and she had it in her moind to do a good job, too. The
first thing she got hold of was a pillow case with lace on the ind of
it--wide lace. And what does she do but lather that clean lace with soap
and put in her best licks on it, and all to no purpose at all only to
wear the lace to strings, and then, don't you think, she quite skipped
the body of the case where the head had been a-layin'."
Mike laughed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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