The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1875-04-08

t~ss' What do you say, Julia." :
' wish TO stick to you, Ownie, and
| neverm4rry anyone else-neyer, never,
/ az hope for iucktD
"a God bless you for them words, dar-
| linz Only be true and faithful, and III
soon have cabin for you somewhere"
"Juiiam said her father, raising his
hands to heaven, "if you marry that boy,
| ever spake TO him, ever think Of him, I'll
| curse you on my bare knees! You don't
know what a fathers curse 81 Don't
bring it on my child, if you- love her.
! Never come across her again, Ownie
MacDermottr' s
You hear that, Julia. What am to
do:" Owen asks.
Go away, and never come near me
| again. or he'll curse me, Ownie. Go
away = - g-ra =
| Owen MacDermott stood perfectly
still Tor few minutes. and then, raising
his eyes TO heaven, and with the, i'm
J petuosity of young Irishman, called
down bitter curse ON his only brother.
May you never tie happier than / am
I ROW, sleeping or waking, May every
thing you put your handto turn to dust
and ashesi May your children live to
hate and dishonor you, Martin MacDer-
mott! And with one long look at the
| trembling Julia Owen rapidly passed
! ouJ into the cold darkness of the March
| evening and was seen no more in Castle
! gar. Ten pounds of the money left him
l-by his father he took, the remainder hay
/ in the bank. But which side he went, or
what became or him, no one knew. -
| 4 year passed away and then Michael
| OByrne died, and Julia, from sheer in
| ability to resist any longer, became the
wife of Martin MacDermott, though she
feared the very sound of his voice and
| trembled at his touch. He was tyrant,
/ but she scarcely needed that, for she had
! no viii and no wish to do anything but
| what he babe her. She ad children, but
| one after another they siekened and died,
and things in general began to grow
! wrong with Martin his shabby churlish-
ness making him generally disliked
| When they were ten years married Julia
/ died in giving birth to twins, fine
J salthy boy and girl. Both lived, and
all the affection their father had for any
thing he conferred on the boy he called
| Darby after his own father. The little
girl he cared nothing about, allowing
her 10 grow up just as best she could.
The farm Martin took so treacherously
| from his brother he gave up long before,
| as nothing ever sown there prospered,
| Farm had been going for years. Darby
MacDermott grew up to be fine, hand
| some man, first and foremost in every
mischief the village could afford, and at
twenty years of age got transported for
seven years for treason felony, as he had
| taken part in the rebellion Z of 1S4S
| julia was an idle, careless girl, who
| spent her time in gossiping in the
| neighbours house, instead of taking care
of her father, weak, helpless old man,
who toiled early and late trying to keep
a roof over his head. All his wretched
| schemes had turned out badly. They
Had not in them the ring of straight
| forward and honest man. Above all,
the trouble and disgrace of his. son
| Darby completely broke him down, and
he took 10 his bed, only wishing and
wanting to die. It's the curse it's!
Ownie's CURSE he would moan for
hours, as he lay alone without soul to
hand him even "a drink of water. Sure,
| might have known it would GOMEZ"
At length the climax of Martin Mac
Dermott's suffering was reached, the
measure Of his, punishment filed up.
| For three years he had not paid a six
pence of rent, and he was dispossessed,
| turned out of the house in which he had
been born, and his father and grand
father before him, to die by the WAVELET
| homeless and friendess by the roadside
on dreary November morning.
Remembering his harshness to his
only brother, his harshncSs to his poor,
timid, patient wife, his blind indulgence
of his son in the face of patent facts, his
total neglect of his only daughter, and
his mean, scheming character, there
were few to pity Martin MacDermott in
his trouble; and so he was taken to the
workhouse, his house knocked down, and
not a trace left of what had been once a
happy homestead.
And Owen, when he left the tent that
| ever-memorable st. Patrick's night, it
was with the resolve of going away for
ever-anywhere, so that he WIS far from
the place which had suddenly become
hateful 10 him. lie walked all night
/ and at the break of day found himself
Just outside the town of Ballinasloe.
There he had some breakfast, and at the
! inn he entered into conversation with
some men who were going to England
| with cattle, and were in want of "a drover.
Owen offered his services, and as he APP
| peared quiet, respectable Young man
they were accepted at once. They
| reached Dublin in three days, and then
started for Liverpool, when Owen said
good-by to the cattle-jobbcrs and took
passage to America in the Golden Cross.
On board, he made himself so useful and
agreeable to the Captain that he gave
him recommendation to merchant in
New Yoik. who took him into his office
For five years Owen worked patiently
and steadily, and then his master pro-
noted him to be a clerk; and so on from
step to step his patient, honest industry
raised him till he became partner in one
of the first firms in the great city. Then
| when he paused to consider that he was
rich and Independent, and a gentleman
came home-longings. The Upland Farm,
the lane where he had last walked with
Julia, the quiet little market town-all
used to come before him as he sat in his
grand, lonely house; and at last he re-
solved 10 pay his native place visit.
He arrived at Gort late on the AFTER
noon of the 10th of March, and deter
mined to remain quiet till the next day,
When he felt pretty sure of meeting his
brother Martin. II was Just thirty years
since Owen left his native place, and
there were fewer changes than there
were in himself. But when ST. Patrick's
| Day dawned clear and frosty he could
not rest, and started early in the well-re-
! mcmbered direction of the Upland Farm
| How his heart heat as he drew near the
old cabin, weather. beaten and desolate,
| which had been the home of Julia; and
! how 1t stood still as he reached the level
field of oats which was Just coming over
| ground where his fathers house stood!
Faint and sick he entered the first cabin
| he came to and asked drink of water
| y wretched old woman, seeing how white
| he looked, asked him to take stool,
| which he did, and after a few minutes
/ silence he began to ask some questions
| about the place. A young girl, with
/ face that would have been pretty but for
/ its sulky expression, and quantity of
/ fair hair ncgligently hanging over her
| shoulders looked up from heap of flax
| she was carding and examined the
Stranger attentively as he asked the old
woman what had become of the Mac
! Dermotts.
Come here, Judy, and tell his honor
what became of Martin MacDermott and
| his blessed family. This is his daughter,
/ sir"
And Martin. what has become of
| him? Is he dead ?" Owen asked breath
| lessIv
mo; it would be good Job if he
was" the girl said sullenly; he's in the
I poor house,"
| Owen buried his face in his hands and
/ wept aloud. Surely his curse had fallen
| hot and heavy; far, far hotter and
/ heavier than he meant il should. "Girlt