Omaha daily bee., 1888-10-14

our civilized time is compass
ing. and every breath drawn
is prayer for Ireland's freedom. IT is
as everywhere as the air, if you will get
among the people. At times it is start
ling in its manifestation patient as
these scourged souls are. Over against
the Scalp mountain the other day | was
sitting in n peasants cabin for bit,
and the family were all gathered round,
eight or ten OF them, from the Oldest
sons, who were young men, to the wee
child at its fathers knee. This father
was noble man physically, mentally.
If the old kingly blood does break
through the suppression OF generations
and shine grandly in figure, face, eye,
gesture, even tone and every express
sion that can speak such evidence,
here in this hut was that manner Of
unconscious tribute. He was sitting
against the chimney angle, and had
been telling me their story in modest
way, hesitant at times, repressing man
fully the bitter undercurrent of his
thoughts: of their endles efforts, true
sObriety, struggles against high rents,
short crops and increasing burdens of
ever-new mouths to feed; of their poor
groupings after education, and how, in
bits stead, the father of evenings sat in
the cabin and told to his flock over and
over all he knew; and finally, with low
cred voice, as though the hyena of an
angel might overhear and rack-rent
them out Of that, how, by twelve years
savings, a half-penny at time, enough
had been got together to send, next
spring, the two Oldest boys to America,
where, if in the years they could keep
out of the great cities and get bit of
land of their own (Ah, their
own; and what crushing ref
utation are these two words
from this Irish cabin of the atrocious
sophistries Of the Georges and the Nc
Glynns.). and God would spare the rest
of them to just once to see that great
Joy. it would be enough: when the little
child at his knee, over-wary OF the
stranger, fell back wards across his foot
into the harmless pile of smoulderlng
peat at the chimney-base beside him.
With bound the man had the unhurt,
though scared and crying, child in his
arms, and in tones of sweetest modula-
tion, was soothIngly asking over and
over:
Are We hurted my cushla ma chree?'
1t was the first time | had heard in
the north Ireland's most ineXpresslbly
tender term of endearment, cushla ma
chree (heart pulse, or thrOb0, and 1t
thrilled me. | could no better than say
as sort of solace to the general excite
ment,
"It is easy to know the fathers cushla
ma chree."
He turned swiftly to me with stern
face, putting the child almost rudely
away. "No!-No." he repeated with
gesture of his clinched fist that had
wild and savage grandeur in it. '"Tis
not the child. Before God, the freedom
of ould Ireland's my cushla ma chree"
1t may have been the wild soughing
of the winds among the mountains. 1t
may have been the nearer plant OF the
winds in the grewsome chimney. May
be there was an actual sob in thescabin
that | heard. But from somewhere in
the silence that followed after, came
this,
BY sweet loughs on the mountains,
Where murmurous fountains
Flow over the crags TO the blue, clrcllng
sea;
On boreen; by fair river;
Meath matches whore quiver
Pinched faces from want that has been,
and will be-
There's a heartsob I'm hearin'.
O desolate Erin!
That rises above the hoarsc songs of the
sea-
And that sobbing Will never
Joy calm, till, forever,
Thy people triumphant or tyranny be;
And, thy cushla ma chree-
I'VE are free We are free"
EDGAR L, WAKEMAN.