Michael McGrath, Postmaster Part 4

"Indeed, I cannot say," said McFarquhar; "but it has never hurt him whatever."

"Wait a bit. Do you think that perhaps if Michael had never got the good whisky from his good friends he might not now be where he is?"

McFarquhar was silent. The minister rose to go.

"Mr. McFarquhar, the Lord has a word for you" (McFarquhar rose and stood as he always stood in church), "and it is this: 'We, then, that are strong, ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves.' It is not given to me to deliver Michael from the bondage of death, but to you it is given, and of you He will demand, 'Where is Abel, thy Brother?'"

The minister's last words rolled forth like words of doom.

"Man, it is terrible!" said McFarquhar to me as the minister disappeared down the slope; but he never thought of rejecting the burden of responsibility laid upon him. That he had helped Ould Michael down he would hardly acknowledge, but the minister's message bore in upon him heavily. "Where is Abel, thy brother?" he kept saying to himself. Then he took up the bottle and, holding it up to the light, he said with great deliberation:

"There will be no more of you whatever!"

From that time forth McFarquhar labored with Ould Michael with a patience and a tact that amazed me. He did not try to instill theology into the old man's mind, but he read to him constantly the gospel stories and followed his reading with prayer--always in Gaelic, however, for with this Ould Michael found no fault as to him it was no new thing to hear prayers in a foreign tongue. But one day McFarquhar ventured a step in advance.

"Michael," he said timidly, "you will need to be prayin' for yourself."

"Shure an' don't I inthrate the Blessed Virgin to be doin' that same for me?"

McFarquhar had learned to be very patient with his "Romish errors," so he only replied:

"Ay, but you must take words upon your own lips," he said, earnestly.

"An' how can I, then, for niver a word do I know?"

Then McFarquhar fell into great distress and looked at me imploringly. I rose and went into the next room, closing the door behind me. Then, though I tried to make a noise with the chairs, there rose the sound of McFarquhar's voice; but not with the cadence of the Gaelic prayer. He had no gift in the English language, he said; but evidently Ould Michael thought otherwise, for he cared no more for Gaelic prayers.

By degrees McFarquhar began to hope that Ould Michael would come to the light, but there was a terrible lack in the old soldier of "conviction of sin." One day, however, in his reading he came to the words, "the Captain of our Salvation."

"Captain, did ye say?" said Ould Michael.

"Ay, Captain!" said McFarquhar, surprised at the old man's eager face.

"And what's his rigimint?"

Then McFarquhar, who had grown quick in following Ould Michael's thoughts, read one by one all the words that picture the Christian life as a warfare, ending up with that grand outburst of that n.o.blest of Christian soldiers, "I have fought the fight, I have kept the faith."

The splendid loyalty of it appealed to Ould Michael.

"McFarquhar," he said with quivering voice, "I don't understand much that ye've been sayin' to me, but if the war is still goin' on, an' if he's afther recruits any more bedad it's mesilf wud like to join."

McFarquhar was now at home; vividly he set before Ould Michael the warfare appointed unto men against the world, the flesh and the Devil; and then, with a quick turn, he said:

"An' He is calling to all true men, 'Follow me!'"

"An' wud He have the like av me?" asked Ould Michael, doubtfully.

"Ay, that He would and set you some fightin'."

"Then," said Ould Michael, "I'm wid Him." And no soldier in that warfare ever donned the uniform with simpler faith or wore it with truer heart than did Ould Michael.

Meantime I had, through political friends, set things in motion at Ottawa for the reinstating of Ould Michael in his position as postmaster at Grand Bend, and this, backed up by a pet.i.tion, which through McFarquhar's efforts bore the name of every old-timer in the valleys, brought about the desired end. So one bright day, when Ould Michael was sunning himself on his porch, the stage drove up to his door and, as in the old days, dropped the mail-bag. Ould Michael stood up and, waving his hand to the driver, said:

"Shure, ye've made a mistake; an' I'm not blamin' ye."

"Not much," said the driver. "I always bring my mail to the postmaster."

"Hurrah!" I sung out. "G.o.d save the Queen!"

The little crowd that had gathered round took up my cheer.

"What do ye mean, byes?" said Ould Michael, weakly.

"It means," said McFarquhar, "that if you have the strength you must look after your mail as the postmaster should."

There was a joyous five minutes of congratulation; then the precession formed as before and, led by Ould Michael, marched into the old cabin.

With trembling fingers Ould Michael cut the strings and selected his letter--

"But there'll be no more celebration, byes," he said, nor was there.