People's Pilot, Volume 5, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 September 1895 — MICHAEL’S ROMANCE. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

MICHAEL’S ROMANCE.

YE, LADY, whait a bit, lady. I’ll stop the car for ye. There, I’ve given him the bell; he’ll i stop now, beyant i—) at the road. Now, lady— Oh, be the 9 A tackins e’ smack! I forgot the chilU der?” And, so exXj claiming, the great.

lumbering, good-natured Irish conductor stepped to the ground, went forward, and taking a child in each arm tenderly carried them to the sidewalk and deposited them beside their mother. Did she thank him? Not a word of thanks did she utter. It is doubtful if she thought of doing such a thing. Some persons might have felt the want of politeness, but not so that conductor; for, with a “There, get along with ye now” to his motorman, he swung himself under the hood at the rear of the car and began humming “Kathleen Mavourneen” as the car sped along toward the end of the line. His “bit of a brogue,” his actions and manner indicated very clearly that he had left Ireland but a short time ago. and yet he appeared to be thoroughly familiar with his duties as conductor. The reporter began to talk with the mass of Irish good nature. Getting acquainted was easy enough. A few words about the speed at which the car was running and the danger it occasioned, and they were as well acquainted as though they had been through a campaign together. “It's a fine bit of level country ye have here, but it hasn’t the green,’’ the conductor said. “The green—what green?” he was asked. “Why, man, the green of home—lreland — the emerald fields that would rest yer eyes if ye were blind. There's nothing like it in this country, they say.” “Have you been In this country long?' “Who? 1? Can't you see I'm a yankee?” with a chuckle. "But, faith, I guess it's not hard to tell where I came from, Cornin’ the middle of August I’ll be here seven months, and cornin’ the first of the year, an’ the job holds out, there’ll be more of me here than there is now." “More of you; how can that be?” “True for ye, but, big as I am. the biggest half of me is at home, and she's only a wee bit of a woman at that. But it’s her heart that tells, an’ it's as big as an ox. It’s for her that I’m here, although, God knows, it's little 1 cared for me job at home when I had it. “There now, be aisy, please, till 1 stop the car. I’ll have no one hurt if I can help it ” He rang the bell, allowed the last, passenger but the reporter to slop off, rang to go ahead again, and the conversation was continued. “What part of Ireland did you come from ?" “Ballinamuck, an’ me name is Mur, phy- Michael Murphy, by the grace of Father Gilhooley an’ the holy water ” “Were you not doing well at home 7” “Aye, in pounds, shillings an’ pence.’ “Then why did you come here?” “For the little woman." “But you left her behind you?” “Aye, man, but bow could I help it

’Twas meself that only knew 1 was cornin’ when I came. Ye see, it was this way: I was in the constabulary, an’ with the evictions an' what not I was always gettin' some poor devil in trouble, for they’d tight an’ raise ructions, an’ as I was the biggest man on the force I'd to take every one to prison. “It was a hard life, an’ me that ten-der-hearted that 1 couldn’t bear to b? doin’ what I had to do. But I said, ‘As long as I'm in it I’m in it, an’ it’s the law that's to blame, an’ not Michael Murph?-’ With steeling me heart with such thoughts as that 1 got along well enough until old man Loughran had the process against him, an’ I was sent to put him and his daughter Kitty in the read: an’ he an old comrade of me fatter tint fought with him in the Crimea. I'was the hardest job I ever did, Bmt, pr aise God, it was the best one, too. “Wien I went to put out the few tr?ps of things that they had, an’ tryin’ not to care a rap, his bit of a girl, Kitty, threw herself before me an’ toid me for the sake of me father’s memory (God rest him) to leave them alone. " ’V. ould you have me break me os’h?' s»ys I. oath.’ says she, ‘an’ me in way?’ ’’ Tlture. you’re but a sweet little crumb, z2ys I, ’th t a fly could earn)’

off an’ be glad of it, too.' An* with that I picked her up an’ put her outside the thatch, with her great eyes streamin’ tears. “Then in for the old man, who was moanin’ and weepin’ in the corner, I went. ‘Leave me alone,’ says he. ‘Take the bits of things out, an’ when they’re gone I’ll go,too; it’s little trouble they’ll ever give ye, an’ ye the son of the man I saved from the Roosians, now forty years gone. Take them all; it’s well the old woman's gone, or her heart would be broke; an’ me, with lead in me shoulder that I got at Malakoff, too poor to pay twinty-two shillin’s.’ “ ’Tw’as little trouble I had to get the things out, save for me heart that was frettin’ me soul; but what could I do? The process was on them an’ I had to do it. “Every time I passed over the sill I saw the lass cryin’ an’ raisin’ her big, swollen eyes to me, an’ before I was ' through I was like to put them all back j an’ throw up me job. “As I went back for the last few bits, ' an’ was turnin’ me head away, that I wouldn't see Kitty, she says: ‘Michael Murphy, that’s the meanest day’s work ye ever did, an’ may ye never forget it i till the day of yer death. There’s not , another in the County of Longford that I would do what ye have done this day.’ | “Then she got up an’ followed me ■ under the thatch, took her old father J by the hand, an’ sail: ‘Come, father, j the son of yer old comrade has turned yc out in the world. Ask no more of him; I’ll find bed for ye with someone.’ | An' they walked out, while I gathered , up wl.at was left and placed them on 1 the pile of old traps outside. “By the time I was through the neighbors had learned of the eviction, an’ began to gather as I was nailin’ the rickety old door that wouldn’t keep out j a cat. I didn’t get many blessings for me day’s work, an’ only me size an’ reputation for fightin’ qualities saved me from a beatin.’ “I went back to report to the agent, an’ me heart smote me. As I was passin’ the barracks I thought of the small sum they were evicted for, and said to meself: ‘Mike, it’s a dirty trick ye did the day, to put old Loughran and Kitty out in the world, an’ now that yer | duty’s done, ye'd better put them under , the thatch again, an’ not have yer fa- | ther’s curse bn ye.’ An’ with that I j went to me room an’ got the price of I the rent to take to the agent. “When I walked in he says: ‘Well, Murphy, did ye put them out?’ ‘I did that,’ says I, ‘an’ I never did a worse job in me life.’ ‘How’s that?’ says he. 'Never mind, says I; an’ with that he laughed, an' says in a knowin’ way: ‘Kitty’s a fine bit of a girl--a sweetheart, maybe” ‘Not a bit, sir,’ says I, for the members of the constabulary can’t marry, do ye mind, an’ I never thought of Kitty for a sweetheart, but I did then, an’ her big eyes, an’ rosy cheeks, an’ sweet voice came between me an’ the agent, an’ I couldn’t see him for a time, an' before I thought of payin’ the rent he spoke: “ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘it’ll be hard flndin’ another tenant for the old place, but I had to make an example of some one.’ “ ‘Maybe I could find ye a tenant,’ says I, 'if ye’d tell me the rent ye expect,’ thinkin’ quick. “ ‘There’s little land, an’ it’s not worth much, an’ tenants are scarce, so if ye can got me £5 a year for it it will do,’ says he. “‘lt might be long before ye get a tenant,’ says I. ‘True,’ says he. ‘An’ if I can get ye one at once,-would £4 do?’ says I. “He thought for a moment, an’ then says: Yes, if it’s a good tenant.’ Then says I: ‘l’ve a friend that wants me to get him a place, an’ if ye’ll rent it to me for him, I’ll take it at £4 an’ hold it till he come.’ “ ‘Will ye be surety for the rent,’ says he. ‘Aye,’ says I, ‘make it in me name,’ an’ before I left I had the old place rented, an’ the papers signed an’ in me pocket, an’ so he could not object I paid him down the money I had in me pocket before I left. “I went back an’ found Kitty an’ the old man sittin’ on their traps, an’ everyone cursing me an’ the agent an’ the lord that owned the place. It was some time before I could make them understand that I had rented the place, and when I drew the nails from the door, an’ asked them to help me carry the things in again, they let out a shout that the agent could hear, an’ with the things in they went. “When everything was in, I went to Kitty, an’ says I: ‘I carried ye out the first thing, an’ now I’ll carry ye in the last thing, that scripture may be fulfilled as Father Gilhooley used to say.’ She was for get tin’ away from me, but the women wouldn’t let her, so I picked her up in me arms, while they all laughed and shouted, an’ as I passed over the sill again with her I stooped me head to get in the door, an’ it was then I whispered, ‘Can the fly come back for the I crumb again?’ ‘lf he don’t wait till the j law sends him,’ says she, openin’ her i great eyes, an’ as she looked at me I ' knew I’d have to get out of the conLstabulary, the precious burthen that she I was. I “I got a letter last winter from Con i Ryan, that’s in New York, tellin' me all about the strike on the cars in Brook- | lyn, an’ I says, ‘Mike Murphy, now’s your chance. Go to America; ye can 1 get work at once, an’ then ye send for I Kitty an’ the old man.’ I thought it i over for a day, and then, says I, ‘lf ■ they won’t accept me resignation, I’ll I accept it meself.’ So I called meself ! into executive session, presented the ' resignation, accepted it unanimously, an’ that night, bein’ a free man, I cut ' for Dublin. From there 1 went to Southampton, shioped as a stoker and reached New York while the Strike was on. I came over to Brooklyn, was put on a car, an’ there, thank God, I’ve been ever since, and sendin’ money to Kitty to pay the rent

CAN THE FLY COME BACK FOR THE CRUMB.