The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1888-03-03

mons ID tDe nalI NgnI. llS people
broke into wild shouts The arrival OF
Mr.. Davitt meant food, asd many Of
them were literally starving.
Its the most notifying thing in
tbs world to me to be obliged to appeal
to charity again this year," said Father
0 Donoghue, after we had been warmed
and fed, but what can do? My peo-
pie are simply starving to death. The
potato crup has failed, and there is no
market for their kelp, They have not
the money for buying the elaborate and
expensive vessels and tackle necessary
to fish successfully in these stormy
seas, and the result is that our 3,0o0
people are in absolute want. Unless
| they get some seed potatoes and i'm
mediate relief from hunger, the death
rate will 60 on increasing appaliingly. I"
''Is there a work house feYe?''
mo, indeed. The nearest one is
thirty-two miles away. If one of my
people goes IN they might as we'll all go
in> for the degrees Of poverty are very
! slight. We are all Taxed to support
/ the work house, but I'rn proud to say
/ that there is not a man Or woman OF
Arran under the roof. I'LL show you
how the poor laws work for the Irish
poor. 4 fisherman here--a good, steady
] hard working nan--found things going
against him. Toll as he would he
could not make both ends meet. He
worked night and day Once semeu-
Der he caught 100 fish. He iourneyed
to Galway with them and sold them fol
i 4 shillings. Then he Travelled back
with his money, having done sixty
miles. In spite OF his struggles his
wife died Of privation and the lack of
/! the necessaries of life. ae was left
!. with four little children Oh his hands,
4 besides his invalid sister. "A man can
I struggle to the limit-1ao more.
could not help HIN because my money
/ is long since gone, and there are hun.
4 dreds of pressing cases. The fisherman
was desperate. His children cried all
day for food. Finally one Of them fell
ill, and This decided firn He took
J them all to the work house. When he
/! got there at last they refused to take
\ the children in, despiJe their pitifu]
i condition, unless the father would 60
Y iii with them and work for sheir sup-
port. OF course he couldn't do this
for ms invalid sister would have died
without his care. He begged to have
the youngest child taken in. even if the
others were not. All Of no avail. He
was turned away without a copper tc
help him on his long journey back
Here he is at home again, willing To
work himself to the bone, and never
complaining Of his responsibilities, but
his lot is hard enough. Tae youngest
Guild died not long since. He sent for
me, and was going to bis cabin when
you arrived to night
1--WE will go with You," said MIR.
Davitt.
It was after 10 o'c}ock and the wind
was whistling furious!y around the lit
tie one-sCory cabin as we started OUT
We started briskly down the path
aftei ths priest, who strobe sturdily
along a rocky road chat ran by the edge
Of the bay. The mountain of rocks rose
on one size, the sea stretched out on the
other. We marched thus in single file
for half an hour, and then, approaching
a small village, the priest led the way
to one OF the huts-that occupied by
John Braoazon. the fisherman whose
story he had told us.
Tue cabin was small. The earth
formed the floor. Tive pieces Of peat
burned in the fireplace. The smoke
hung about the ceiling Of the room.
us she bad to night" asked the
priest. .....
"Faith she is, father. / bin fur Two
nights tryin' t. keep Fer warm this
way"
He was on his knees in front Of the
little fire holding square bit of carpet,
about rs big as napkin, so as to warm
it thoroughly. He had ali honest and
prepossessing face, but the lines of suf-
fsring were drawn clear and sharp. He
rose as he spoke and stepped across the
little hut to sort Of doorway cut in the
wall. He motioned us to follow.
You kin look at tn poor GIRL" he
said ''Faith she'll not know it, fur
her stren'th has so far gone that she no
longer opens her eyes"
Within the stone doorway was an al
cove about the sizs If a mans oofln and
perhaps four feet high. Stretched out
in this living tomb was Brabazon's sis
ter, lying on her back on the earth with
some moss under her head. AS the light
fell on her it startled US. Sne wore no
chemise or nightdress, though she was
| partially covered with rags and bits Of
carpet. Her breast, shoulders and arms
were bare and wasted away beyond be-
flief.
| The face of the dying woman was
livid. I could not look at her, and I