The Luck of the Bogans Page #4

"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

								

and cut some generous slices and put a piece of cheese and a knife on
the table within reach of Father Miles's hand. "I suppose 'tis waste
of time to give you more, so it is," she said to him. "Bread an'
cheese and no better will you ate I suppose, sir," and she folded her
arms across her breast and stood looking at him.

"How is the luck of the Bogans to-day?" asked the kind old man. "The
head of the school I make no doubt?" and at this moment Mike came up
the stairs and greeted his priest with reverent affection.

"You're looking faint, sir," he urged. "Biddy get a glass now, we're
quite by ourselves sir--and I've something for sickness that's very
soft and fine entirely."

"Well, well, this once then," answered Father Miles, doubtfully. "I've
had a hard day."

He held the glass in his hand for a moment and then pushed it away
from him on the table. "Indeed it's not wrong in itself," said the
good priest looking up presently, as if he had made something clear to
his mind. "The wrong is in ourselves to make beasts of ourselves with
taking too much of it. I don't shame me with this glass of the best
that you've poured for me. My own sin is in the coffee-pot. It wilds
my head when I've got most use for it, and I'm sure of an aching
pate--God forgive me for indulgence; but I must have it for my
breakfast now, and then. Give me a bit of bread and cheese; yes,
that's what I want Bridget," and he pushed the glass still farther
away.

"I've been at a sorry place this night," he went on a moment later,
"the smell of the stuff can't but remind me. 'T is a comfort to come
here and find your house so clean and decent, and both of you looking
me in the face. God save all poor sinners!" and Mike and his wife
murmured assent.

"I wish to God you were out of this business and every honest man with
you," said the priest, suddenly dropping his fatherly, Bantry good
fellowship and making his host conscious of the solemnity of the
church altar. "'T is a decent shop you keep, Mike, my lad, I know. I
know no harm of it, but there are weak souls that can't master
themselves, and the drink drags them down. There's little use in doing
away with the shops though. We've got to make young men strong enough
to let drink alone. The drink will always be in the world. Here's your
bright young son; what are they teaching him at his school, do ye
know? Has his characther grown, do ye think Mike Bogan, and is he
going to be a man for good, and to help decent things get a start and
bad things to keep their place? I don't care how he does his sums, so
I don't, if he has no characther, and they may fight about beer and
fight about temperance and carry their Father Matthew flags flying
high, so they may, and it's all no good, lessen we can raise the young
folks up above the place where drink and shame can touch them. God
grant us help," he whispered, dropping his head on his breast. "I'm
getting to be an old man myself, and I've never known the temptation
that's like a hounding devil to many men. I can let drink alone, God
pity those who can't. Keep the young lads out from it Mike. You're a
good fellow, you're careful, but poor human souls are weak, God
knows!"

"'T is thrue for you indade sir!" responded Biddy. Her eyes were full
of tears at Father Miles's tone and earnestness, but she could not
have made clear to herself what he had said.

"Will I put a dhrap more of wather in it, your riverence?" she
suggested, but the priest shook his head gently, and, taking a handful
of parish papers out of his pocket, proceeded to hold conference with
the master of the house. Biddy waited a while and at last ventured to
clear away the good priest's frugal supper. She left the glass, but he
went away without touching it, and in the very afterglow of his
parting blessing she announced that she had the makings of a pain
within, and took the cordial with apparent approval.

Mike did not make any comment; he was tired and it was late, and long
past their bedtime.

Biddy was wide awake and talkative from her tonic, and soon pursued
the subject of conversation.

"What set the father out wid talking I do' know?" she inquired a
little ill-humoredly. "'T was thrue for him that we kape a dacint shop
anyhow, an' how will it be in the way of poor Danny when it's finding
the manes to put him where he is?"

"'T wa'n't that he mint at all," answered Mike from his pillow.
"Didn't ye hear what he said?" after endeavoring fruitlessly to repeat
it in his own words--"He's right, sure, about a b'y's getting thim
books and having no characther. He thinks well of Danny, and he knows
no harm of him. Wisha! what 'll we do wid that b'y, Biddy, I do' know!
'Fadther,' says he to me today, 'why couldn't ye wait an' bring me
into the wurruld on American soil,' says he 'and maybe I'd been
prisident,' says he, and 't was the thruth for him."

"I'd rather for him to be a priest meself," replied the mother.

"That's what Father Miles said himself the other day," announced Mike
wide awake now. "'I wish he'd the makings of a good priest,' said he.
'There'll soon be need of good men and hard picking for 'em too,'
said he, and he let a great sigh. ''T is money they want and place
they want, most o' them bla'guard b'ys in the siminary. 'T is the old
fashioned min like mesilf that think however will they get souls
through this life and through heaven's gate at last, wid clane names
and God-fearin', dacint names left after them.' Thim was his own words
indade."

"Idication was his cry always," said Bridget, blessing herself in the
dark. "'T was only last confission he took no note of me own sins
while he redded himself in the face with why don't I kape Mary Ellen
to the school, and myself not an hour in the day to rest my poor
bones. 'I have to kape her in, to mind the shmall childer,' says I,
an' 't was thrue for me, so it was." She gave a jerk under the
blankets, which represented the courtesy of the occasion. She had a
great respect and some awe for Father Miles, but she considered
herself to have held her ground in that discussion.

"We'll do our best by them all, sure," answered Mike. "'T is tribbling
me money I am ivery day," he added, gayly. "The lord-liftinant himsilf
is no surer of a good bury-in' than you an' me. What if we made a
priest of Dan intirely?" with a great outburst of proper pride. "A son
of your own at the alther saying mass for you, Biddy Flaherty from
Glengariff!"

"He's no mind for it, more's the grief," answered the mother,
unexpectedly, shaking her head gloomily on the pillow, "but marruk me
wuds now, he'll ride in his carriage when I'm under the sods, give me
grace and you too Mike Bogan! Look at the airs of him and the toss of
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