News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1883-03-29
Pretty Mary Shea.
BY W. S. FRENCH.

BY W. S. FRENCH
was walking one evening in my phi
vate pleasure grounds, after day of
heavy labor IN the office, when I thought
[ perceived pair of bright eyes watch
ing me through the leaves of some holly
bushes with which the wood abounds
[ stopped Immediately and asked who
was there.
"Oh, indeed, your honor, it's only
me and I know it's against the rules of
the office to come here. But shure,
wasn't l waiting at the office door all
day, and they wouldn't let me in, be-
cause, they said was well able to hold
out still, and wasn't nigh so weak as
many of the creatures that was there.
And that was true enough; but then
they didn't know that I had ten long
miles to go home before night and so,
as some said your honor was a good
man, though some said not, I thought I
would just chance it for once, and may
be your honor would find time to speak
to a poor, desolate orphan like me, even
though it is against the rules.
She had watched my countenance with
the qUuckness of an Irish peasant dur
| ing the whole time she was speaking;
and in fact felt sure she had prolonged
her statement for that sole purpose, in
order to form an estimate Of her success,
or vary her line Of advance according as
circumstances disclosed themselves. I
saw this perfectly at the time; but my
interest in her vivacious courage was so
great, and my admiration of her beauty
so impossible to conceal, that she saw in
a moment, though had not yet spoken
a word, that she had won her point.
''Ah well knew your honor hard
good, kind heart within you." said She.
coming forward with graceful animation. /
under cover Of her wcIl-turncd Hattcry .
And now. may be ia never have another :
opportunity, and oh! Just listen to me .
till l tell You what I have to say, for /.
mine Is sore, sore sorrow y
In moment her whole countenance.
almost her form. had changed. Her
courage-some Of which she had cvi-
IDENTIFY derived from her beautv-seemcd
to have departed Tears filled her eyes
as she looked down upon the ground.
and even her form seemed to lose many
inches of its height. I could scarcely
have thought that the same human being
was before me, as she now stood about
| to tell her tale of sorrow.
'Mary Shea is my name," said she
''that Is, my maiden name, and for that
matter, I am not married"
married - [ exclaimed, ''why, you
seem scarcely seventeen years of age.
What is your case? What do you want
me to do?''
'I'ntell your honor that, replied she.
''What I want your honor to do is, to
put Eugene's name in the books, as ten
ant for the little place have up in the
mountain"
''And who is Eugene? and how came
you to have little place Of your own,
and you so young as you are ?"
"Il tell your honor all about it, she
replied "The way Of it all was this,
your honor was not here in the hungry
year," "a term frequently used amongst
the peasantrv to describe the famine);
''but them was terrible times. I was
only a little slip Of girl then. But my
father had a little place up in the noun
tains, the same as what Twas now talking
about. Well, you see, he was an ould
man, and my mother was sickly, and
| they had no other child but me, and the
place was very small, and when the po-
| tatoes blacllened, sure they had no one
| but God to look to. Father says l,
! 1 fear yell die, and mother, too, if We
don't get something to ate.
''WeI, ye see, we lived far up in the
mountains, and no meal or anything
could be got there, except what l brought
myself-anl i WIS ten long miles from
Kenmare. But still, says 7, L won't
let father die if l can help it = So We
had a few hives Of honey, and I used to
! slip over to Kenmare, now and then, with
a hive, and bring back a little meal to
father And | won't tell your honor a
lie when I say that sorra ha'porth we had
to live on except Just the few hives Of
honey; and knew when they were out,
and I had no money to buy meal, we
might Just lie down and die.
"WeII, sure enough, after time the
honey was all sold. With that | fed my
father and myself for another weary
month and when the meal was out, fa-
ther says to me, Mary dear, its no use
striving any longer against the hunger,
I can't stand If. I'm weak and faint,
and not able to go out to the public
works, and / might as well die IN
| the house as ON the roads; and
now mind, Mary dear, when ! die,
bury me beside your mother IN the gar
dem 'Oh, father dear, don't talk that
way, says l ; III just go out and see if
/ can't get something that will keep the
life in We yet SO father said nothing,
but just lay down on the bed, as if to
wait till ] came home. Wei, | had
some strength and spirit in me yet. And
as Eugene and had known each other
since we were little children, ] Thought
] would just go to him and see if he
could help me. But when I went to his
house he was far away on the public
works. So / had no more heart nor
strength to go amy further, aud I had
enough to do to get home. But oh
sorrow came heavy ON me then: for
when ! called on father, as I came in, to
ask him if God had sent him any food.