Father Bearne, S.J.
Heroes must be more than driftwood
Floating on a waveless tide.
For right is right, since God
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin.
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course,
I have kept the
* * * * *
troll cel’ er y new’ fan gled thatch chink’ ing as par’ a gus im mense’ sauce’ pan de mol’ ish ing sa’ vor y pat’ terns ag’ gra va ting
There was a cuckoo clock hanging in Tom Turner’s cottage. When it struck one, Tom’s wife laid the baby in the cradle, and took a saucepan off the fire, from which came a very savory smell.
“If father doesn’t come soon,” she observed, “the apple dumplings will be too much done.”
“There he is!” cried the little boy; “he is coming around by the wood; and now he’s going over the bridge. O father! make haste, and have some apple dumpling.”
“Tom,” said his wife, as he came near, “art tired to-day?”
“Uncommon tired,” said Tom, as he threw himself on the bench, in the shadow of the thatch.
“Has anything gone wrong?” asked his wife; “what’s the matter?”
“Matter!” repeated Tom; “is anything the matter? The matter is this, mother, that I’m a miserable, hard-worked slave;” and he clapped his hands upon his knees and uttered in a deep voice, which frightened the children—“a miserable slave!”
“Bless us!” said the wife, but could not make out what he meant.
“A miserable, ill-used slave,” continued Tom, “and always have been.”
“Always have been?” said his wife: “why, father, I thought thou used to say, at the election time, that thou wast a free-born Briton.”
“Women have no business with politics,” said Tom, getting up rather sulkily. Whether it was the force of habit, or the smell of the dinner, that made him do it, has not been ascertained; but it is certain that he walked into the house, ate plenty of pork and greens, and then took a tolerable share in demolishing the apple dumpling.
When the little children were gone out to play, Tom’s wife said to him, “I hope thou and thy master haven’t had words to-day.”
“We’ve had no words,” said Tom, impatiently; “but I’m sick of being at another man’s beck and call. It’s, ‘Tom, do this,’ and ‘Tom do that,’ and nothing but work, work, work, from Monday morning till Saturday night. I was thinking as I walked over to Squire Morton’s to ask for the turnip seed for master,—I was thinking, Sally, that I am nothing but a poor workingman after all. In short, I’m a slave; and my spirit won’t stand it.”
So saying, Tom flung himself out at the cottage door, and his wife thought he was going back to his work as usual; but she was mistaken. He walked to the wood, and there, when he came to the border of a little tinkling stream, he sat down and began to brood over his grievances.