From "Patience McGuire" (1820)
[1820]
One day that October, Annie was late coming home from school. As the afternoon wore on toward evening, I began to feel concerned. Then I could not help but recall how my mother must have worried just like this the evening I met Mrs. Annie Smith and stayed out after dark. But I was sixteen then, practically a woman. My Annie was too young yet.
Night was falling and I was just setting the dinner table when I heard soft footsteps and the kitchen door opening. Poor Annie was all soiled and bedraggled, her apron torn, her eyes red and her hair undone. I caught her to my arms and asked what had kept her.
"Oh Mama! The children at school are so cruel! They made me cry so. After school I could not bear to see anyone. I went down to the riverside, threw myself on the muddy bank, and wept, thinking I would not come home before the cows. My apron caught on a bramble. Oh Mama…!" She buried her tousled head in my embrace and hugged me for dear life.
I said, "Sit down, dear. Have a mug of cider." I poured it and sat down at the table with her, rubbing her back gently. "What happened?"
Her tears poured out. "They teased me that I wish to woo lasses as a lad does! And that perhaps I wish to be a lad, that I might woo lasses!"
I smoothed her hair. "Come now, dear, you know there is no such thing! Why, how silly of them to imagine something that isn't real, and think they could say such nonsense about you! Pay them no mind, for they are too foolish to bother with." As I was saying this, she glanced up and showed me a strange look in her eyes; then she looked down again and hunched over, rocking back and forth." "Come on, sweetling," I cooed, "if you're troubled we can talk again after dinner. Your mama worked hard all day and still has plenty to do. We have all this hungry family to feed, and think how they will clamor if we don't serve dinner soon. Now go wash up. Have you anything clean to wear?"
She shrugged and went out to the pump. Just then Patty and Mark burst in the door, followed by Johnny and Bridget. Finally Mary appeared and began to herd the young ones and to help with getting dinner on the table. I heard Michael's horse coming up the path, with the sound of cowbells faint as wisps of smoke in the distance of that crisp, cool fall evening.
I wonder that I did not hear the banshee.
The next day we received a letter from a parish priest at St. Francisville, Louisiana, with the news that our sons Bartholomew and Michael departed this life down in New Orleans, aged only 23 and 22, taking their grandfathers' names with them. A barge collision at the crowded port and no doubt a drunkard river pilot. He added that since it would take too long for word to reach me, they had gone ahead and buried them, after taking up a charity collection against the funeral expenses and a stipend for him to say the Requiems. This collection began with the twenty-three dollars Bart and Mike had between them. Father Moreau reassured us that all had been paid for and we did not owe them anything. The following month, Maggie wrote from Loretto that she and Luke had paid Father Gallitzin for Masses for Bart and Mike too.
One day that October, Annie was late coming home from school. As the afternoon wore on toward evening, I began to feel concerned. Then I could not help but recall how my mother must have worried just like this the evening I met Mrs. Annie Smith and stayed out after dark. But I was sixteen then, practically a woman. My Annie was too young yet.
Night was falling and I was just setting the dinner table when I heard soft footsteps and the kitchen door opening. Poor Annie was all soiled and bedraggled, her apron torn, her eyes red and her hair undone. I caught her to my arms and asked what had kept her.
"Oh Mama! The children at school are so cruel! They made me cry so. After school I could not bear to see anyone. I went down to the riverside, threw myself on the muddy bank, and wept, thinking I would not come home before the cows. My apron caught on a bramble. Oh Mama…!" She buried her tousled head in my embrace and hugged me for dear life.
I said, "Sit down, dear. Have a mug of cider." I poured it and sat down at the table with her, rubbing her back gently. "What happened?"
Her tears poured out. "They teased me that I wish to woo lasses as a lad does! And that perhaps I wish to be a lad, that I might woo lasses!"
I smoothed her hair. "Come now, dear, you know there is no such thing! Why, how silly of them to imagine something that isn't real, and think they could say such nonsense about you! Pay them no mind, for they are too foolish to bother with." As I was saying this, she glanced up and showed me a strange look in her eyes; then she looked down again and hunched over, rocking back and forth." "Come on, sweetling," I cooed, "if you're troubled we can talk again after dinner. Your mama worked hard all day and still has plenty to do. We have all this hungry family to feed, and think how they will clamor if we don't serve dinner soon. Now go wash up. Have you anything clean to wear?"
She shrugged and went out to the pump. Just then Patty and Mark burst in the door, followed by Johnny and Bridget. Finally Mary appeared and began to herd the young ones and to help with getting dinner on the table. I heard Michael's horse coming up the path, with the sound of cowbells faint as wisps of smoke in the distance of that crisp, cool fall evening.
I wonder that I did not hear the banshee.
The next day we received a letter from a parish priest at St. Francisville, Louisiana, with the news that our sons Bartholomew and Michael departed this life down in New Orleans, aged only 23 and 22, taking their grandfathers' names with them. A barge collision at the crowded port and no doubt a drunkard river pilot. He added that since it would take too long for word to reach me, they had gone ahead and buried them, after taking up a charity collection against the funeral expenses and a stipend for him to say the Requiems. This collection began with the twenty-three dollars Bart and Mike had between them. Father Moreau reassured us that all had been paid for and we did not owe them anything. The following month, Maggie wrote from Loretto that she and Luke had paid Father Gallitzin for Masses for Bart and Mike too.