"Not _I'll be sayin'_," corrected Miss Slocum, "but _I'll say_."
"_Learn_, not _larn_, and _I'll say_, not _I'll be sayin'_," amended the obedient Jim, and then he sped away.
And that night he did what never a child of Mrs. O'Callaghan's had done before. The family were at supper. Pat, paying good heed to his tongue, was manifestly improving, and the widow was congratulating him in her own way.
"What did I be sayin' to you, Pat dear? Did I be tellin' you you wasn't too old to larn? And I'll be sayin' it again, so I will."
"_Larn's_ not the right of it," interrupted Jim. "_Learn's_ what you ought to be sayin'. _I'll be sayin'_ ain't right, nayther," he continued. "It's _I'll say_," and he looked very important.
Pat and Andy regarded him in displeased astonishment, but the widow could take care of her own.
"And it's glad I am to see that you know so much, Jim," she said quietly. "What more do you know? Let's hear it."
Thus brought to book Jim grew confused. He blushed and stammered under the unfavorable regard of his mother and two older brothers, and finally confessed that he knew nothing more. At which Barney and Tommie nudged each other. They did not understand what all the talk was about, but they could see that Jim was very red in the face, and not at all at his ease, and their beforetime hectored little selves rejoiced.
"B'ys," said the mother, "I told you if your blessed father was here he'd not be above learning from any one, old or young. And he wouldn't, nayther. And sure he said _larn_ himsilf. And from Jim here he'd learn better than that, and he'd learn, too, how them that knows very little is the quickest to make a show of it. But kape on, Jim. It's glad I am you know the difference betwane _larn_ and _learn_, and sure the only difference is that wan's wrong and the other's roight."
Jim had hoped to quite extinguish Andy by his corrections, and he hardly knew where he was when his mother finished; and he was still more abroad when Pat took him out after supper and vigorously informed him that bad manners were far worse than bad grammar.
"Well, well," thought the widow that evening as she waited alone for Pat, "Jim do be gettin' ahead of me, that he do. He's loike to have the consate, so he is, take him down as a body will. But there's wan good thing about it. While he's studyin' to beat us all on the talkin' he's lettin' the little b'ys alone famous. He didn't never do much to 'em, but he jist riled 'em completely, so he did, and made 'em cross at iverybody."
CHAPTER XIV
A month went along very quietly and, following that, another month. The weeds that had flourished along the sides of the ditches were all dead.
No more did the squawking O'Callaghan geese delight themselves among them. The kitchen stove had long been brought back into the shanty, and Barney and Tommie, sitting close behind it on their short evenings that ended in bedtime at half-past seven o'clock, had only the remembrance of their labors. But that memory sweetened the prospect of savory dinners to come, for even Barney and Tommie liked to feel that they were of some importance in the family world. Often had their mother praised them for their care of the geese, and once she had bought for them a whole nickel's worth of candy and had bestowed this great treat with the words, "And how could I be havin' geese only for the little b'ys? You'll jist be givin' Larry a bit, for sure and he'll be past four nixt summer, and helpin' you loike anything."
The candy, like the summer, was only a memory now, but, without putting their hope into words, there lingered in the minds of the two an anticipation of more candy to come.
As for Larry, he lived from day to day and took whatever came his way cheerfully, which he might well do, since he was a general pet wherever he was known.
But now a new difficulty confronted the widow. Snowtime had come. How was she to get Larry along to her wash places? She was sitting late one Friday afternoon thinking about it. All day the snow had been falling, and many times, in the early dusk, had Jim been out to measure the depth with his legs. And each time he returned he had worn a more gratified smile.
"Well, Jim," said his mother finally, "you do be grinnin' foine ivery toime you come in, and a lot of wet you're bringin' with you, too, a-stampin' the snow off on the floor. You'll remimber that toimes are changed. Wanst it was old men as had the rheumatism, but now b'ys can have it, to say nothin' of colds and sore throats and doctors' bills.
You'll stay in now. The snow can deepen without you, I'm thinkin'."
Thus admonished, Jim went with a bad grace to wash his hands, and then to set the table for supper.
Presently in came Pat.
"Where's the clothes basket, mother?" he inquired. "I'll be bringing in the clothes from the line for you."
Mrs. O'Callaghan handed him the basket with a smile, and out went Mr.
Farnham's newest clerk to the summer kitchen, under whose roof the line was stretched in parallel lengths.
"I couldn't be dryin' the clothes in the house with no place to put 'em, but the new kitchen's the thing, so 'tis," the mother had said. "Clothes will dry there famous, 'specially when it's rainin' or snowin'. Pat and Moike did a good thing when they made it. I've heard tell of them as has dryin' rooms for winter, and 'tis mysilf has wan of 'em."
These were the words that had caused Pat to smile with pleasure, and had stirred Mike's heart with determination to do yet more for his mother.
And that same evening the widow's sturdy second son came to the shanty, and behind him on the snow bumped and slid his newest handiwork--a sled for Larry to ride on.
"And what have you got there?" asked Mrs. O'Callaghan when he dragged it into the house.
"A sled!" cried Barney and Tommie together, pausing on their bedward way, and opening wide their sleepy eyes.
"And 'twas mysilf was wonderin' how to get Larry along with me!"
exclaimed the mother when Mike had explained the object of the sled.
"What's the good of me wonderin' when I've got Moike for my b'y? 'Twas his father as would have made a sled jist loike it, I'm thinkin'. But Moike," as she saw the light of affection in his eyes, "you'll be spoilin' me. Soon I'll not be wonderin' any more, but I'll be sayin', 'Moike will fix it some way.'"
"Will you, mother?" cried the boy. "Will you promise me that?"
"Moike! Moike!" said the widow, touched by his eager look and tone, "what a b'y you are for questions! Would I be layin' all my burdens on you, when it's six brothers you've got? 'Twouldn't be fair to you. But to know you're so ready and willin' loightens my ivery load, and it's a comfort you are to me. Your father was always for makin' easy toimes for other people, and you're loike him, Moike. And now I've something else to be talkin' of. Will you be havin' the goose for Gineral and Mrs.
Brady to-morrow?"
"I will, mother," answered Mike respectfully.
"Then, Moike, when you get ready to go back, you'll foind the foinest wan of the lot all by himsilf in a box Pat brought from the store. Mr.
Farnham give it to him, though he mostly sells 'em. And I've larned that goose to slape in it, so I have, and an awful job it was, too. Geese and pigs now, Moike, are slow to larn. But he knows his place at last, so he does, and you'll foind him in it."
Then catching sight, around the corner of the table, of the enraptured two on the kitchen floor busy over the new family treasure, she cried: "Now, Barney and Tommie, to bed with you, and dream of havin' the sled Saturdays, for that's what you shall have. 'Tis Moike makes the treats for us all."
That evening at half-past nine there was a knock on the sitting-room door.
"Come!" called the General.
The door opened and in walked Mike with the sleek goose under his arm.
"My mother's sending you a goose, Mrs. Brady," he said with a bow.
The Bradys were already much attached to Mike; and the General had been heard to say that the very name of O'Callaghan seemed to be a certificate of worthiness. So the goose was made much of and the next time Mike went home he carried a bunch of roses from Mrs. Brady.
"And sure 'tis roses as are the gift of a lady!" cried Mrs. O'Callaghan, receiving the flowers with an air of pride. "There's some as would have took the goose as their due and have made you feel loike dirt under their feet while they was takin' it. But the General and Mrs. Brady are quite another sort. And it's proud I am that they et the goose and found it good. Though it wouldn't have been good nayther if you hadn't cooked it good, Moike. There's them as can cook 'most anything and have it good, jist as there's them as can spoil the best. And now, Moike, I've news for you. But first do you notice how clean Jim kapes things? Him and Andy makes a foine team, so they do."
Mike looked about him with a critical air that increased in mock severity as he saw little Jim rapidly donning his regalia of importance.
"See a speck of dust if you can," spoke Jim's look. And then Mike was lavish with his praise.
"You don't kape Mrs. Brady's things no cleaner, do you, Moike?"
"I don't, mother, for I can't," was the answer. Hearing which, Jim became pompous, and the widow judged that she might tell her news without unduly rousing up his jealousy.
"Well, then, Moike, you'll niver be guessin' the news, only maybe you've heard it already, for 'tis school news. Andy's to be set ahead of his class into the nixt higher wan. It's proud I am, for ivery family needs a scholar, so it does."
Mike turned upon Andy a look of affectionate interest. "I hadn't heard your news, mother, but it's good news, and I'm glad to hear it," he said heartily.
"I knowed you would be glad, Moike, for 'tis yoursilf as sees that when your brother gets up you get up with him. It's bad when wan brother thinks to be gettin' ahead of all the rest." And she looked gravely at Jim. "Brothers are made each wan to do his part, and be glad when wan and another gets up."