It may seem a trifling story, and its lesson a trifling one. But it is
not so,--neither trifling nor needless.
It is a rare thing, indeed, for a woman in this America to long and love
to have children. The only two women whom I know in this large town who
do are Mrs. O'Reilly, the mother of poor Bridget, and--one more.
Poor old Mrs. O'Reilly! She came to me this morning, and sat in my
kitchen, and cried so bitterly, and talked in her strong Corkonian
brogue, and rocked herself backwards and forwards, and shook abroad the
great lambent banners of her cap-border,--a grotesque old woman, but
sacred in her tender motherhood and her great grief. Her first coming
was to peddle blackberries in the summer. I asked her if she picked them
herself.
"Och thin and shure I've the childher to do that saam," said she. And
what wonderful music must the voice of her youth have been! It was deep
of intonation and heartfelt,--rich and smooth and thrilling yet, after
fifty years of poverty and toil. "And id's enough of thim that's in id!"
she added, with a curious air of satisfaction and reflectiveness.
"How many children have you?" I inquired.
She laughed and blushed, old woman though she was; and pride and deep
delight and love shone in her large, clear, gray eyes.
"I've fourteen darlins, thank God for ivery wan of thim! And it's a
purrty parthy they are!"
"Fourteen!" I exclaimed,--"how lovely!" I stopped short and blushed.
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