In Wild Rose Time. Douglas Amanda M.
a wealth of pleasure.
Now and then Dil had to leave off and comfort the fractious babies. They were getting tired, and wanted their own mothers. But for the poor little girl playing at motherhood there was no one to come in and infold her in restful arms, and comfort her when the long, warm day ended.
At last she had the bowl filled with flowers, a great mound of delicious pink and tenderest green. Bess and Dilsey knew little about artistic methods; but the sight was a joy that the finest knowledge could not have described – that full, wordless satisfaction.
A passionate pulsation throbbed in Bess’s throat as if it would strangle her.
“Now,” said Dil, “I’m going to set thim in your room. I’ll push you in there, and you can make believe you are in a truly garden. For whin the folks come in, they’ll be beggin’ thim, an’ they’ll give thim to the babies to tear up. I couldn’t abear to have thim hurted. An’ babies don’t care!”
“They can go out every day and see things.” Bess clasped her arms about Dil’s neck, and kissed her fervently.
The room was very, very small. Dil’s cot stood along the wall; and there were two or three grocery boxes piled up to make a sort of closet, with a faded curtain across it. There was just room to push in the carriage by the window. It was Bess’s sofa by day and bed by night. The bowl was placed on the window-sill. Now and then a breath of air found its way in.
Mrs. Finn and Mrs. Brady came in for their babies. Dil stirred the fire and put on the kettle, then washed the potatoes and set them to cook. Now and then she ran in to smile at Bess.
“It’s just like heaven!” cried the little wraith.
Alas, if this was a foretaste of heaven! This close, fetid air, and the wet clothes, for they were put up at all hours. Pure air was one of the luxuries Barker’s Court could not indulge in, though we talk of it being God’s gift to rich and poor alike.
When the two rough, begrimed boys rushed in there was only Jamsie left; and he was in an uneasy sleep, with his thumb in his mouth, so Dil held up her hand to entreat silence. The boys lived so generally in the street, and did so much shrewd foraging, that they looked well and hearty, if they had the air of prospective toughs.
“I’ve put the last bit of bread in the milk for Bess’s supper, and you must wait until mother comes,” said Dil, with her small air of authority.
The boys grumbled. Little Dan was quick to follow Owen’s lead, who said roughly, —
“O yes, de kid must have everything! An’ she’ll never be good fer nothin’ wid dem legs. No use tryin’ to fatten her up wid de luxuries o’ life!” and the boy’s swagger would have done credit to his father.
“She’s no good,” put in Dan; “’n’ I’m norful hungry.”
The tears came to Dil’s eyes, though she was quite used to hearing such remarks on the little sister she loved better than her own life. Everybody seemed to consider her such a useless burthen.
“Ain’t them praties done? I could jes’ eat ’em raw,” whined Dan.
“Shet yer mug, er I’ll gev ye a swipe,” said Owen. “Ye don’t look’s if ye wos goin’ to faint this minnit.”
“You jes’ mind yer own biz, Owen Quinn;” and the little fellow swelled up with an air.
Owen made a dive, but Dan was like an eel. They were on the verge of a scrimmage when their mother entered. A tall, brawny woman, with an abundance of black hair, blue eyes, and a color that, in her girlhood, had made her the belle of her native hamlet, less than twenty years ago. A hard, weather-beaten look had settled in the lines of her face, her cheeks had an unwholesome redness, her skin had the sodden aspect that hot steam brings about, and her eyes were a little bleared by her frequent potations. Her voice was loud, and carried a covert threat in it. She cuffed the boys, produced a loaf of bread, and some roast beef bones Mrs. Collins had given her.
“It just needs a stir in the kettle, Dil, for it’s gone a bit sour; but it’ll freshen up with salt an’ some onion. How many babies?”
“Five,” answered Dil.
Just then Mrs. Gillen came flying up the stairs. She was not much beyond twenty, and still comely with youth and health and hope.
“O me darlint!” snatching up her baby with rapture, “did he want his own mammy, sure?” laughing gleefully between the kisses. “Has he fretted any, Dil?”
“He’s been very good.” Dil was too wise to tell bad tales.
“He always is, the darlint! An’ I’m late. I was ironin’ away for dear life, whin Mrs. Welford comes down wid a lasht summer’s gown, an’ sez she, ‘Mrs. Gillen, you stop an’ iron it, an’ I’ll give ye a quarther, for ye’ve had a big day’s work,’ sez she. So what cud I do, faix, when she shpoke so cliver loike, an’ the money ready to hand?”
“They’re not often so free wid their tin, though heaven knows they’re free enough wid their work,” commented Mrs. Quinn, with a touch of contempt.
“Mrs. Welford is a rale lady, ivery inch of her. Jamsie grumbles that I go to her, but a bit o’ tin comes in moighty handy. An’ many’s the cast-offs I do be getten, an’ it all helps. Here’s five cints, and here’s a nickel for yourself, Dil. Whatever in the world should we be doin’ widout ye?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” and Dil courtesied.
Mrs. Gillen bundled up her baby in her apron and wished them good-night, skipping home with a light heart to get her husband’s supper, and hear him scold a little because she worked so late.
Mrs. Quinn held out her hand to her daughter.
“Gev me that nickel,” she said.
The ready obedience was inspired more by the fear of a blow than love.
The potatoes were done, and they sat down to supper. Certainly the boys were hungry.
“I’m goin’ to step down to Mrs. MacBride’s an’ sit on the stoop for a bit of fresh air,” she announced. “I’ve worked that hard to-day there’s no life left in me. Don’t ye dare to stir out, ye spalpeens, or I’ll break ivery blessed bone in your body,” and Mrs. Gillen shook her fist by way of a parting injunction.
II – SATURDAY AFTERNOON
The boys waited until they were sure their mother was having her evening treat. Mrs. MacBride’s was a very fascinating place, a sort of woman’s club-house, with a sprinkling of men to make things merry. Decent, too, as drinking-places go. No dancing girls, but now and then a rather broad joke, and a song that would not appeal to a highly cultivated taste. There was plenty of gossip, but the hours were not long.
Dil washed up the dishes, dumped the stove-grate, and took the ashes out to the box. Then she swept up the room and set the table, and her day’s work was done.
Patsey Muldoon came in with his heartsome laugh.
“O Patsey, they’re the loveliest things, all coming up so fresh an’ elegant, as if they grew in the water. Bess is wild about thim;” and Dil’s tone was brimful of joy.
They went in and sat on the cot.
“They do seem alive,” declared Bess, with her thin, quivering note of satisfaction. “I do be talkin’ to thim all the time, as if they were folks.”
Patsey laughed down into the large, eager, faded eyes.
“Sure, it’s fine as a queen in her garden ye are! We’ll say thanky to my lady for not kapin’ them herself. An’ I had a streak of luck this avenin’, an’ I bought the weeny thing two of the purtiest apples I could find. I was goin’ to git a norange, but the cheek of ’em, wantin’ five cents for wan!”
“I like the apples best, Patsey,” replied the plaintive little voice. “You’re so good!”
“I had one mesilf, an’ it’s first-rate. Casey’s goin’ ter