Not so Erin’s daughter. Sitting broadly on the grass, shaking a clenched fist, she screamed: “Ye rat, ye vile spalpeen. To think o’ the likes o’ ye takin’ me unawares; and ye’ve upset the spuds and me pan of fresh water. May the divil fly away with ye. Get y’self out o’ here before I smash ye with the stool”; and Julia’s language became violent in a torrent of brogue, as, madly erect, she swung the stool and let fly while Louis danced about her singing an impudent Irish song he had learned from her. Then Julia sat largely down again in the grass, gasping for breath, while Louis went for the distant stool. Grandpa passed that way, remarking simply: “Ah, I hear you and Julia are visiting today.” Louis walked up to Julia and said, in a manner: “Julia Head, I now present you with this stool. It is far less beautiful than yourself, but in its humble way, it is as useful as your own valued activities, inasmuch as it, on many an occasion, has served as your main stay while you were drawing from our gentle kine the day’s accumulations. Will you accept this emblem of industry in the same simplicity of spirit with which it is offered you?” Julia, tired of ranting, laughed. “Sure,” she said, “ ’tis well ye know that had ye come at me dacently, it’s a hearty welcome I’d a given ye.” And she resumed operations, still sitting, the pan of spuds resting upon her enormous thighs. And Louis sat down meekly beside her, his small hand barely touching the expanse of freckled arm. He said he was sorry, and went on to pacify her. He used Gaelic words she had taught him, words romantically tender and sweet. Julia softened. With both hands she turned his face toward her; looked at him roguishly:
“Now what the divil is it ye want?”
“Julia, tell me a fairy story, won’t you? Just a little one, won’t you, Julia?”
“Divil a fairy tale there’ll be told this day! Tell me about Boston. I’ve a brother working there. I want ye to find how he’s getting on. His name’s Eugene Head. He’s younger than meself, he’s only here wan year. He’s tendin’ bar in a saloon on Tremont Street near King’s Chapel. I’ve heard he’s steady and don’t drink; and I’ve heard, too, that he knocks down quite a bit. Naw! I don’t mean that he knocks down people. I shouldn’t be talking such things t’ye anyway. It’s sorry I am I said a word. But Boston is a hell ye know.”
Then Louis opened the subject nearest his heart. He told her all about the soldiers in faded blue, and the wives and children hanging to them. What did it all mean? Why was it so sad; why did he have to cry?
“Well, Louis dear, ye know war’s a sad business; those men ye saw had just been mustered out of the army; they were good fighting men, but all tired out. From the shawls the women wore and the dirty childer, I know the whole crowd was Irish and poor; and as everyone knows, the Irish won the war. Think of it! Holy Virgin!—the Irish fighting for the naygers! What will it be next time?”
“But, Julia, what was it all for? What was back of it all?”
“I’ll not be telling ye what was back of it all, though well I know. I’ll waste no breath on one who has no moind. Besides you’re too young and ye have no education. Ye wouldn’t understand. Why the divil don’t ye stick hard to yer books, and learn? What in the name of all the saints d’ye think your father is spending his good money on ye furr? Filling yer belly with food, giving ye a good, clane bed to sleep in, putting nice clothes on ye, buying ye books, except that he wants ye to have an education? The Irish are proud of education, and yer father’s a proud man, and he wants to be proud of his son. In God’s name why don’t ye do yure share? Ye remember the tale, I told ye of the man who looked too long at the moon? It’s a tender heart indade, ye had likewise to be lookin’ at thim dirty childer hangin’ to the mithers’ skirts! It’s a big heart ye had and a fine education ye have that ye didn’t think at wanst whin ye saw thim that ye haven’t a care in the world, that ye’ve niver known rale hunger, niver a rale sorrow, niver a heartbreak, niver despair; niver heard the wolf bark at the doore as yer blood went cold! And yerself, Louis, wid yere big heart and small head couldn’t see with yer own eyes and without any books at all, that thim very childer was part of what as ye say lies behind it all? God! me heart aches in the tellin; for the min ye saw come back wuz not all the min that wint out; but I’m through. I’ll tell ye no more of what lies behind it all; but I’ll tell ye some more about education, for I want to knock a bit of sinse into yure empty skull. Yere all sintiment, Louis, and no mercy. You’ve kissed the Blarney Stone right well, and ye kicked the milking stool from under me.
“Now the story I’m to tell ye I got from one of me girl friends whose brother said he knew the man by reputayshun, and that he came from County Kerry where the Lakes of Killarney a’re I’ve told ye so mooch about,
