The Luck of the Bogans Page #5

"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

								

his head. 'Mother,' says he to me, 'I'm goin' to be a big man!' says
he, 'whin I grow up. D' ye think anybody 'll take me fer an
Irishman?'"

"Bad cess to the bla'guard fer that then!" said Mike. "It's spoilin'
him you are. 'T is me own pride of heart to come from old Bantry, an'
he lied to me yesterday gone, saying would I take him to see the old
place. Wisha! he's got too much tongue, and he's spindin' me money for
me."

But Biddy pretended to be falling asleep. This was not the first time
that the honest pair had felt anxiety creeping into their pride about
Dan. He frightened them sometimes; he was cleverer than they, and the
mother had already stormed at the boy for his misdemeanors, in her
garrulous fashion, but covered them from his father notwithstanding.
She felt an assurance of the merely temporary damage of wild oats; she
believed it was just as well for a boy to have his freedom and his
fling. She even treated his known lies as if they were truth. An
easy-going comfortable soul was Biddy, who with much shrewdness and
only a trace of shrewishness got through this evil world as best she
might.

The months flew by. Mike Bogan was a middle-aged man, and he and his
wife looked somewhat elderly as they went to their pew in the broad
aisle on Sunday morning. Danny usually came too, and the girls, but
Dan looked contemptuous as he sat next his father and said his prayers
perfunctorily. Sometimes he was not there at all, and Mike had a heavy
heart under his stiff best coat. He was richer than any other member
of Father Miles's parish, and he was known and respected everywhere as
a good citizen. Even the most ardent believers in the temperance cause
were known to say that little mischief would be done if all the
rumsellers were such men as Mr. Bogan. He was generous and in his
limited way public spirited. He did his duty to his neighbor as he saw
it. Every one used liquor more or less, somebody must sell it, but a
low groggery was as much a thing of shame to him as to any man. He
never sold to boys, or to men who had had too much already. His shop
was clean and wholesome, and in the evening when a dozen or more of
his respectable acquaintances gathered after work for a social hour or
two and a glass of whiskey to rest and cheer them after exposure,
there was not a little good talk about affairs from their point of
view, and plenty of honest fun. In their own houses very likely the
rooms were close and hot, and the chairs hard and unrestful. The wife
had taken her bit of recreation by daylight and visited her friends.
This was their comfortable club-room, Mike Bogan's shop, and Mike
himself the leader of the assembly. There was a sober-mindedness in
the man; his companions were contented though he only looked on
tolerantly at their fun, for the most part, without taking any active
share himself.

One cool October evening the company was well gathered in, there was
even a glow of wood fire in the stove, and two of the old men were
sitting close beside it. Corny Sullivan had been a soldier in the
British army for many years, he had been wounded at last at
Sebastopol, and yet here he was, full of military lore and glory, and
propped by a wooden leg. Corny was usually addressed an Timber-toes by
his familiars; he was an irascible old follow to deal with, but as
clean as a whistle from long habit and even stately to look at in his
arm-chair. He had a nephew with whom he made his home, who would give
him an arm presently and get him home to bed. His mate was an old
sailor much bent in the back by rheumatism, Jerry Bogan; who, though
no relation, was tenderly treated by Mike, being old and poor. His
score was never kept, but he seldom wanted for his evening grog. Jerry
Bogan was a cheerful soul; the wit of the Celts and their pathetic
wilfulness were delightful in him. The priest liked him, the doctor
half loved him, this old-fashioned Irishman who had a graceful
compliment or a thrust of wit for whoever came in his way. What a
treasury of old Irish lore and legend was this old sailor! What
broadness and good cheer and charity had been fostered in his sailor
heart! The delight of little children with his clever tales and
mysterious performances with bits of soft pine and a sharp jackknife,
a very Baron Munchausen of adventure, and here he sat, round backed
and head pushed forward like an old turtle, by the fire. The other men
sat or stood about the low-walled room. Mike was serving his friends;
there was a clink of glass and a stirring and shaking, a pungent odor
of tobacco, and much laughter.

"Soombody, whoiver it was, thrun a cat down in Tom Auley's well las'
night," announced Corny Sullivan with more than usual gravity.

"They'll have no luck thin," says Jerry. "Anybody that meddles wid
wather 'ill have no luck while they live, faix they 'ont thin."

"Tom Auley's been up watchin' this three nights now," confides the
other old gossip. "Thim dirty b'y's troublin' his pigs in the sthy,
and having every stramash about the place, all for revinge upon him
for gettin' the police afther thim when they sthole his hins. 'T was
as well for him too, they're dirty bligards, the whole box and dice of
them."

"Whishper now!" and Jerry pokes his great head closer to his friend.
"The divil of 'em all is young Dan Bogan, Mike's son. Sorra a bit o'
good is all his schoolin', and Mike's heart 'll be soon broke from
him. I see him goin' about wid his nose in the air. He's a pritty boy,
but the divil is in him an' 't is he ought to have been a praste wid
his chances and Father Miles himself tarkin and tarkin wid him tryin'
to make him a crown of pride to his people after all they did for him.
There was niver a spade in his hand to touch the ground yet. Look at
his poor father now! Look at Mike, that's grown old and gray since
winther time." And they turned their eyes to the bar to refresh their
memories with the sight of the disappointed face behind it.

There was a rattling at the door-latch just then and loud voices
outside, and as the old men looked, young Dan Bogan came stumbling
into the shop. Behind him were two low fellows, the worst in the town,
they had all been drinking more than was good for them, and for the
first time Mike Bogan saw his only son's boyish face reddened and
stupid with whiskey. It had been an unbroken law that Dan should keep
out of the shop with his comrades; now he strode forward with an
absurd travesty of manliness, and demanded liquor for himself and his
friends at his father's hands.

Mike staggered, his eyes glared with anger. His fatherly pride made
him long to uphold the poor boy before so many witnesses. He reached
for a glass, then he pushed it away--and with quick step reached Dan's
side, caught him by the collar, and held him. One or two of the
spectators chuckled with weak excitement, but the rest pitied Mike
Bogan as he would have pitied them.
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