The Luck of the Bogans Page #2

"The Luck of the Bogans" is a charming story by Sarah Orne Jewett that explores themes of fortune, community, and resilience in a rural setting. Through the eyes of its characters, the narrative delves into the lives of those living in a small town, highlighting their struggles and triumphs against the backdrop of their relationships with one another and the land. Jewett's vivid descriptions and keen observations bring to life the unique culture and character of the Bogans, ultimately revealing the profound connections that shape their experiences and outlooks on life.

• Short story

								

members of her family who had always complained at home of their
unjust rent and the difficulties of the crops. Everybody said that the
times were going to be harder than ever that summer, and she was quick
to catch at the inflammable speeches of some lawless townsfolk who
were never satisfied with anything. As for Mike, the times always
seemed alike, he did not grudge hard work and he never found fault
with the good Irish weather. His nature was not resentful, he only
laughed when Biddy assured him that the gorse would soon grow in the
thatch of his head as it did on their cabin chimney. It was only when
she said that, in America they could make a gentleman of baby Dan,
that the father's blue eyes glistened and a look of determination came
into his face.

"God grant we'll come back to it some day," said Mike softly. "I
didn't know, faix indeed, how sorry I'd be for lavin' the owld place.
Awh Biddy girl 't is many the weary day we'll think of the home we've
left," and Biddy removed the shawl one instant from her face only to
cover it again and burst into a new shower of tears. The next day but
one they were sailing away out of Queenstown harbor to the high seas.
Old Ireland was blurring its green and purple coasts moment by moment;
Kinsale lay low, and they had lost sight of the white cabins on the
hillsides and the pastures golden with furze. Hours before the old
women on the wharves had turned away from them shaking their great cap
borders. Hours before their own feet had trodden the soil of Ireland
for the last time. Mike Bogan and Biddy had left home, they were well
on their way to America. Luckily nobody had been with them at last to
say good-by--they had taken a more or less active part in the piteous
general leave-taking at Queenstown, but those were not the faces of
their own mothers or brothers to which they looked back as the ship
slid away through the green water.

"Well, sure, we're gone now," said Mike setting his face westward and
tramping the steerage deck. "I like the say too, I belave, me own
grandfather was a sailor, an' 't is a fine life for a man. Here's
little Dan goin' to Ameriky and niver mistrustin'. We'll be sindin'
the gossoon back again, rich and fine, to the owld place by and by,
'tis thrue for us, Biddy."

But Biddy, like many another woman, had set great changes in motion
and then longed to escape from their consequences. She was much
discomposed by the ship's unsteadiness. She accused patient Mike of
having dragged her away from home and friends. She grew very white in
the face, and was helped to her hard steerage berth where she had
plenty of time for reflection upon the vicissitudes of seafaring. As
for Mike, he grew more and more enthusiastic day by day over their
prospects as he sat in the shelter of the bulkhead and tended little
Dan and talked with his companions as they sailed westward.

Who of us have made enough kindly allowance for the homesick
quick-witted ambitious Irish men and women, who have landed every year
with such high hopes on our shores. There are some of a worse sort, of
whom their native country might think itself well rid--but what
thrifty New England housekeeper who takes into her home one of the
pleasant-faced little captive maids, from Southern Ireland, has half
understood the change of surroundings. That was a life in the open air
under falling showers and warm sunshine, a life of wit and humor, of
lavishness and lack of provision for more than the passing day--of
constant companionship with one's neighbors, and a cheerful serenity
and lack of nervous anticipation born of the vicinity of the Gulf
Stream. The climate makes the characteristics of Cork and Kerry; the
fierce energy of the Celtic race in America is forced and stimulated
by our own keen air. The beauty of Ireland is little hinted at by an
average orderly New England town--many a young girl and many a
blundering sturdy fellow is heartsick with the homesickness and
restraint of his first year in this golden country of hard work. To so
many of them a house has been but a shelter for the night--a
sleeping-place: if you remember that, you do not wonder at fumbling
fingers or impatience with our houses full of trinkets. Our needless
tangle of furnishing bewilders those who still think the flowers that
grow of themselves in the Irish thatch more beautiful than anything
under the cover of our prosaic shingled roofs.

"Faix, a fellow on deck was telling me a nate story the day," said
Mike to Biddy Bogan, by way of kindly amusement. "Says he to me,
'Mike,' says he, 'did ye ever hear of wan Pathrick O'Brien that heard
some bla'guard tell how in Ameriky you picked up money in the
streets?' 'No,' says I. 'He wint ashore in a place,' says he, 'and he
walked along and he come to a sign on a wall. Silver Street was on it.
"I 'ont stap here," says he, "it ain't wort my while at all, at all.
I'll go on to Gold Street," says he, but he walked ever since and he
ain't got there yet.'"

Biddy opened her eyes and laughed feebly. Mike looked so bronzed and
ruddy and above all so happy, that she took heart. "We're sound and
young, thanks be to God, and we'll earn an honest living," said Mike,
proudly. "'T is the childher I'm thinkin' of all the time, an' how
they'll get a chance the best of us niver had at home. God bless old
Bantry forever in spite of it. An' there's a smart rid-headed man that
has every bother to me why 'ont I go with him and keep a tidy bar.
He's been in the same business this four year gone since he come out,
and twenty pince in his pocket when he landed, and this year he took a
month off and went over to see the ould folks and build 'em a dacint
house intirely, and hire a man to farm wid 'em now the old ones is
old. He says will I put in my money wid him, an he'll give me a great
start I wouldn't have in three years else."

"Did you have the fool's head on you then and let out to him what
manes you had?" whispered Biddy, fiercely and lifting herself to look
at him.

"I did then; 't was no harm," answered the unsuspecting Mike.

"'T was a black-hearted rascal won the truth from you!" and Biddy
roused her waning forces and that very afternoon appeared on deck. The
red-headed man knew that he had lost the day when he caught her first
scornful glance.

"God pity the old folks of him an' their house," muttered the
sharp-witted wife to Mike, as she looked at the low-lived scheming
fellow whom she suspected of treachery.

"He said thim was old clothes he was wearin' on the sea," apologized
Mike for his friend, looking down somewhat consciously at his own
comfortable corduroys. He and Biddy had been well to do on their
little farm, and on good terms with their landlord the old squire.
Poor old gentleman, it had been a sorrow to him to let the young
people go. He was a generous, kindly old man, but he suffered from the
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