The Salt Lake herald. [volume] (Salt Lake City [Utah]) 1870-1909, 1896-07-05
MICKEY FINN'S FLOWER.
81 Want to Put it Around the Sugar
Bowl in the Morning.
BY ERNEST .1ARRaIn


Copyrighted, 1896, by Ernest Jarrold.
Bridget Finn was passionately fond
of flowers. In the summer her lattice
OF morning glories, over the kitchen
door, was at once the most kaleido-
scopic floral exhibit in the hamlet. and
the envy of the neighbors. Her holly
] hooks shone with more vivid crimson
color than those of her rival, and her
mignonette emitted a more delicate
perfume. Even in the winter a pottedl
sWeetol1er bush, with prodigal liber-
allty, Wastadi its foneyed sweetness in
a vain combat with boiling cabbage. a
/ dropping lily Of the valley chimed it's
Volceiess tones in. the sheltered corner
or the kitchen, where the westering sun
lent a touch of warmth to the pallor
of its bells. But. as the snow beat
upon the window panes, like fine shot,
Bridget realized with sigh that gar
rulous March was still mistress of gar
den and meadow, and that April's
warm tears, pregnant with rejuVena-
ton, would have to fall freely before
the blusterer would loosen his grip
of ice
Bridget was born on Easter day 1t
had been her custom for years to dec
crate her table on her birthday with
with wild plant dug from the woods
by her son, Mickey.
BRIDGET's LAMENT.
''Sorra Easter day twill be this
year she muttered, as a vicious blast
laden with snow came down the Chin
ney into the fireplace. scattering sparks
over the kitchen floor. Faith, Mickey
wouldn't get hide nor hair of a. green
thing in the woods this year. saving a
hemlock branch. Divils the flower
he'd get to mind me of the dear little
shamrock"
Then she sat down before the open
fireplace, threw another log on the
glowing enbers, and mused on the
Vale of Glenmore in Ireland, where the
grass was as green in February as it
is in Kentucky in July, and crooned to
herself:
There's dear little plant that grows
in our isle,
And st. Patrick himself sure has blest
it,
And with dew from his eye often wet
it;
1t grows in the bog, in the mire, in the
moorland,
And they call it the sweet little sham
rock of Ireland.
And while she wandered in fancy
through the Vale of Glenmore, and
listened to the luting of the chaffinches
and linnets, the storm ragged around
the shanty, with icy malignity, and
the fakes added with gentle, silent
persistence to the depths of the white
carpet covering the green things un-
der the pine needles.
1t was 3 o'clock on the afternoon be-
fore Easter, when the boys burst out
of the school house door into the
storm. There were no tender memories
of bygone years for them, the only
retrospection being of a dingy, over
heated room where tasks, of which
they could see no possible use, were
thrust upon them with judicial sever
ity. With colt-like vigor they reveled
in the storm. laughter filed the air.
and the cheeks, paied by confinement.
grew vivid and rosy with quickeliing
life. And, as little Mike blundered in
upon mis- mother. buoyant with vitality
and covered with snow. and fell upon
his knees besidel-her, he looked up
and saw that her cheeks were wet.
MICKEY THE COMFORTER.
"Arrah, mother dear he said, with
tender solicitude, IAN wants achin'
We? Is yer heart sore? Shure, allana,
you ought not to be cryin' Tomorrow
your birthday, acushla, an yer only So
years old, an the light is in yer eye
an the blush is on yer cheek, an the
rent is paid, an
''Thrue for We, Mickey" interrupted
his mother, wiping her eyes. with her
apron, but I was tlhinkin' of the flow
ers in the Vale O. Glenmore, an the
shanlrocks, an shure I have no fresh
wild thing from the woods to mind me
of the time when l was young an
sweet like you, Mickey, darlint, an I'm
that heavy-hearted: I dunno what to
do at all, at all. But don't tell your
father, Mickey
Mickey promised, and after cheering
his mother into a more cheerful frame
of mind he went out to feed the mamie
goat Mrs Finn did not notice that he
had hidden the coal shovel under his
coat. 1t was o'clock when the door
closed behind the boy. Twilight was