Roughing It in the Bush Part 20

"Shure an' 'tis to keep the sugar from burning."

"But, John, I see no sugar!"

"Och, but 'tis all sugar, only 'tis mola.s.ses jist now. See how it sticks to the ladle. Aha! But Miss Katie will have the fine lumps of sugar when she awakes in the morning."

I grew so tired and sleepy that I left John to finish his job, went to bed, and soon forgot all about the maple sugar. At breakfast I observed a small plate upon the table, placed in a very conspicuous manner on the tea-tray, the bottom covered with a hard, black substance, which very much resembled pitch. "What is that dirty-looking stuff, John?"

"Shure an 'tis the maple sugar."

"Can people eat that?"

"By dad, an' they can; only thry it, ma'arm."

"Why, 'tis so hard, I cannot cut it."

With some difficulty, and not without cutting his finger, John broke a piece off, and stuffed it into the baby's mouth. The poor child made a horrible face, and rejected it as if it had been poison. For my own part, I never tasted anything more nauseous. It tasted like a compound of pork grease and tobacco juice. "Well, Monaghan, if this be maple sugar, I never wish to taste any again."

"Och, bad luck to it!" said the lad, flinging it away, plate and all. "It would have been first-rate but for the dirthy pot, and the blackguard cinders, and its burning to the bottom of the pot. That owld hag, Mrs. R---, bewitched it with her evil eye."

"She is not so clever as you think, John," said I, laughing. "You have forgotten how to make the sugar since you left D---; but let us forget the maple sugar, and think of something else. Had you not better get old Mrs. R--- to mend that jacket for you; it is too ragged."

"Ay, dad! an it's mysel' is the illigant tailor. Wasn't I brought up to the thrade in the Foundling Hospital?"

"And why did you quit it?"

"Because it's a low, mane thrade for a jintleman's son."

"But, John, who told you that you were a gentleman's son?"

"Och! but I'm shure of it, thin. All my propensities are gintale.

I love horses, and dogs, and fine clothes, and money. Och! that I was but a jintleman! I'd show them what life is intirely, and I'd challenge Masther William, and have my revenge out of him for the blows he gave me."

"You had better mend your trousers," said I, giving him a tailor's needle, a pair of scissors, and some strong thread.

"Shure, an' I'll do that same in a brace of shakes," and sitting down upon a ricketty three-legged stool of his own manufacturing, he commenced his tailoring by tearing off a piece of his trousers to patch the elbows of his jacket. And this trifling act, simple as it may appear, was a perfect type of the boy's general conduct, and marked his progress through life. The present for him was everything; he had no future. While he supplied stuff from the trousers to repair the fractures in the jacket, he never reflected that both would be required on the morrow. Poor John! in his brief and reckless career, how often have I recalled that foolish act of his. It now appears to me that his whole life was spent in tearing his trousers to repair his jacket.

In the evening John asked me for a piece of soap.

"What do you want with soap, John?"

"To wash my shirt, ma'am. Shure an' I'm a baste to be seen, as black as the pots. Sorra a shirt have I but the one, an' it has stuck on my back so long that I can thole it no longer."

I looked at the wrists and collar of the condemned garment, which was all of it that John allowed to be visible. They were much in need of soap and water.

"Well, John, I will leave you the soap, but can you wash?"

"Och, shure, an' I can thry. If I soap it enough, and rub long enough, the shirt must come clane at last."

I thought the matter rather doubtful; but when I went to bed I left what he required, and soon saw through the c.h.i.n.ks in the boards a roaring fire, and heard John whistling over the tub. He whistled and rubbed, and washed and scrubbed, but as there seemed no end to the job, and he was a long washing this one garment as Bell would have been performing the same operation on fifty, I laughed to myself, and thought of my own abortive attempts in that way, and went fast asleep. In the morning John came to his breakfast, with his jacket b.u.t.toned up to his throat.

"Could you not dry your shirt by the fire, John? You will get cold wanting it."

"Aha, by dad! it's dhry enough now. The divil has made tinder of it long afore this."

"Why, what has happened to it? I heard you washing all night."

"Washing! Faith, an' I did scrub it till my hands were all ruined intirely, and thin I took the brush to it; but sorra a bit of the dirth could I get out of it. The more I rubbed the blacker it got, until I had used up all the soap, and the perspiration was pouring off me like rain. 'You dirthy owld bit of a blackguard of a rag,'

says I, in an exthremity of rage, 'You're not fit for the back of a dacent lad an' a jintleman. The divil may take ye to cover one of his imps;' an' wid that I sthirred up the fire, and sent it plump into the middle of the blaze."

"And what will you do for a shirt?"

"Faith, do as many a betther man has done afore me, go widout."

I looked up two old shirts of my husband's, which John received with an ecstacy of delight. He retired instantly to the stable, but soon returned, with as much of the linen breast of the garment displayed as his waistcoat would allow. No peac.o.c.k was ever prouder of his tail than the wild Irish lad was of the old shirt.

John had been treated very much like a spoiled child, and, like most spoiled children, he was rather fond of having his own way. Moodie had set him to do something which was rather contrary to his own inclinations; he did not object to the task in words, for he was rarely saucy to his employers, but he left the following stave upon the table, written in pencil upon a sc.r.a.p of paper torn from the back of an old letter:--

"A man alive, an ox may drive Unto a springing well; To make him drink, as he may think, No man can him compel.

"JOHN MONAGHAN."

THE EMIGRANT'S BRIDE

A Canadian ballad

The waves that girt my native isle, The parting sunbeams tinged with red; And far to seaward, many a mile, A line of dazzling glory shed.

But, ah, upon that glowing track, No glance my aching eyeb.a.l.l.s threw; As I my little bark steer'd back To bid my love a last adieu.

Upon the sh.o.r.es of that lone bay, With folded arms the maiden stood; And watch'd the white sails wing their way Across the gently heaving flood.

The summer breeze her raven hair Swept lightly from her snowy brow; And there she stood, as pale and fair As the white foam that kiss'd my prow.

My throbbing heart with grief swell'd high, A heavy tale was mine to tell; For once I shunn'd the beauteous eye, Whose glance on mine so fondly fell.

My hopeless message soon was sped, My father's voice my suit denied; And I had promised not to wed, Against his wish, my island bride.

She did not weep, though her pale face The trace of recent sorrow wore; But, with a melancholy grace, She waved my shallop from the sh.o.r.e.

She did not weep; but oh! that smile Was sadder than the briny tear That trembled on my cheek the while I bade adieu to one so dear.

She did not speak--no accents fell From lips that breathed the balm of May; In broken words I strove to tell All that my broken heart would say.

She did not speak--but to my eyes She raised the deep light of her own.

As breaks the sun through cloudy skies, My spirit caught a brighter tone.

"Dear girl!" I cried, "we ne'er can part, My angry father's wrath I'll brave; He shall not tear thee from my heart.

Fly, fly with me across the wave!"

My hand convulsively she press'd, Her tears were mingling fast with mine; And, sinking trembling on my breast, She murmur'd out, "For ever thine!"