OUR STORY.

Mataura Ensign, Issue 223, 3 December 1896, Page 6

OUR STORY.

THE SEVENTH SON. The kitchen next door to the forge was pleasant enough, but its mistress would not hoar of us remaining there while we waited for the pony to be shod. Is it here," she said, " with the bins strayin' in an' out, an' Kitty washing the pigs' pitaties, let alone the noise o' the forge that 'ud moidher you ! It goes eff me like water of a duck's back, but thin I'm used to it. 'Tis like the tickin' o' the clock, that you often can't here if you listen for it. I can't hear when the hammer's goin'. Come right away up to tho room an' take a glass o' sherry wine an' a bit o' curant cake." The room was half bedroom half best parlor. The corner was occupied by an immense tent bedstead with a patchwork quilt. A table in the centre was covered with shiny American cloth, and solid old mahogany chairs seated in penitential hair-cloth stood round the wull at exact distances from each other.. A snowy white dresser full'of china was a somewhat unusual itenr in such a room. " 'Tis fitter for the kitchen, maybe," said its mistress apologetically, " but the bits o' plates an' things came down to my mother from her mother, an' God knows how many dacent women called it theirs before that. I couldn't let it go to the kitchen, an' the dresser was handiest." . 'We admired the china while we were unwillingly feasted on the " sherry wine," and wished that we might dare offer to buy some of it. There was, a statue of the Blessed Virgin in one corner,covered with gauze, starbespangled. The usual number of vases filled with flowers stood before • it, and a little wick floating in oil sent up a feeble little flame in the sunlight. But quite away from the altar there hung in a space on the wall a picture of the child Jesus. "' ' ' It was a little colored print such as would greatly attract simple people. The Child stood holding the world in His 'hand. He was in plump boyhood, and the one little garment left the round pink limbs bare. We said it was pretty, and Mrs MaeLaughlin smiled well -pleased. " 'Tis God Almighty," she said, " but 'tis my little Stevie too, though God forgive me for saying the like." " You mean it is like a little boy of yours ?" " What else ? That's how I come to have it. I had him two years an' the God wanted him an' took him. He was the seventh son." She said it impressively. There is unusual virtue attaching to the seventh son. All the worM-knows he has the power of healing. " Six o'-'cliem I have about me, an' goeeMboys, glory be to God. They've kept the forge goin' since the father died, an' they hand over the money to me regular every night. There's no drinkin', or card playin', or divilment at all in them. Praise be to his name." She smiled at us with an air of deprecation, as if she thought we we might think her confidence foolish. Then she went on in a lower voice — ?' An' yet my heart's more set in Stevie that in all six. A seventh son an' he the youngest. He wa%, two when he died, an' yet, do you know, though it's long ago, the sight of a child of two goes to my heart. " How did you get the picture ?" " Well, I'll tell you. I was going along the quays of Dublin one day soon after God took bim. The wind was in my face, an' 'twas a cold bleak ' day, wid the sky all grey, and the - gulls screechin' above the black water. Maybe 'twas the trouble in my heart made the day seem so cold an' lonesome. Well, I was facin' for home, an my feet were as heavy as my heart, when all of a sudden I caught sight of itself there in a window, an' my heart gey a great lep. I didn't see that 'twas the Lord at all ; I only saw 'twas Stevie, and I said to myself, ' Now, if I bad that I wouldn't feel the hunger for his face so sharp on me.' Time 'an again I dragged myself away, for I could badly afford to buy it at the time. But 'twas no use strugglin' on with the wind in my teeth and my feet like lead, when all the time the picture was draggin' me back. At last I -went back and bought it. A thought came an' hit me between the two eyes that maybe if I left it there another 'ud buy it, an' I'd never get • the chance again. I came home a happy woman wid that at the top of the basket." " And you've had it ever since ?" " Excepting a week or two last Christmas was a twelvemonth. It fell down in the night an' made a terrible oration. The glass was broke on it. I knew it meant news from a . distance, 'an sure enough a week later in walked my Aunt Susy's second cousin's son from Australia. I sent it away to get the glass. It was the weary long time doing, an' I missed it terrible. But sure there it is as good as ever it was ; there's nothing in the place I wouldn't give for it." " You never had a daughter, Mrs MaeLaughlin ?" " Never a little. girl at all. Ido be miesin' one in my old age, but sure if I had one maybe some boy 'ud be takin' her from me. All the same it 'ud be nice to have boys eoortin' about the place, maybe bringin' me in a little bottle of whisky in the tail- . pocket o' their coats to get the good word o' me." We laugh, as we are meant to, at the little jest, but the smile passes away from the old woman's face as the sunlight passes away from a brown pool. Her eyes fill suddenly as she looks up at the picture. " There are the little feet of him," she says, "an' the little fat legs, aye an' the wise eyes, an' the head o' good curls. Not that I'd compare my child to God Almighty's Child. God forbid ! Still, when you look at the picture there your're loookin at Stevie."