The Morris County chronicle. [volume] (Morristown, N.J.) 1877-1915, 1899-11-10
POTCH.
An Irish Character Sketch.


couth, but the real Potch had the head
of a Greek statue.
| can see him now, across the gulf
of years, as, With a child's eyes of
solemn wonder, | saw him once, a
familiar figure of the everyday life,
and marveled often why such a big
man should find nothing better to do
than carry turf. On has back a well
laden turf creel, slung by straw rope
round his neck, that figure never fades
or changes from memory's picture gal
lery as in and out, with slow, heavy
foot, Potch plods from the turf rick to
''the house" $50 the people around used
to designate the landlords residence),
filling the turf buckets as fast as they
emptied, in all except the reception
rooms, and keeping the kitchen fire
roaring up the chimney all day long
No light task was it, for turf burns
quickly, and he had to bring turf to the
laundry, which was away from the
house, and to the harness room as
well. But the bone of contention was
the henhouse fire, and the salt of
Potch's life the nearly periodical fight
as to who would see to this.
The great power in the lower re-
gions was the cook, her slave the
kitchen "boy," Potch, should be an
other. Each new cook tried to reduce
him to thraldom and failed, the crucial
point returning always to that hen
house fire, concerning which neither
threats nor persuasions would make
Potch yield. But sometimes a poor,
harassed kitchenmaid would appeal to
his compassion: "Sure, it's herself has
me druv this day. Meself doesn't
know if it's on me head or me heels
am with her. She's a terror most
days but the divil himself couldn't
stand her when there's a company
dinner. Arrah, now, We might see to
the fire in the hinhouse this wanst. or
the cratures of hins'll be famished all
out, and sorra' an egg there'll be in the
mornin. Do, now, and won't forgit
We. Sure, she throws away as much
soup in the sthrainin as 'u'd warm the
heart in little Pat
Potch seldom refused, his point be-
ing that the henhouse and its fire were
woman's work and therefore degrad-
ing to a man. But done as a favor
that was different thing.
Potch was married man, and his
wife when he married her was a
smart, pretty young girl, with a deli
cate coloring and lovely fair hair. 1t
was affirmed that, though satisfied
with her personal attractions, Potch
was determined to test her temper be-
fore he clinched the bargain and that
the test he chose was that of slyly
pushing her into a bog hole as they
We're going to chapel together and
leave her to scramble out as best she
could. He had chosen a shallow one,
from which she emerged dirty and
draggled, yet without a cross word or
even look for her ungallant bachelor
So he married her the following Sun
day and faced the world with 2 shil-
lings week. This was his stipend.
considered ample, because, in addition,
he got his meals and two suits of
corduroy in the year.
His wife had gone with the two
boys to the hop picking in England
/ think that the family were away
the poor wages had ceased and that
Potch must have been one of the har-
vesters in another part of England
However it was, the wife and her sons
were along among the hoppers 1t
was wet season, and Pat caught cold
and died on the roadside in his moth
er's arms, his daddys name the last
word on his lips.
81 have nothing to send him but
this mother. Cut it off and give it to
him, from his little Pat" This was
the solitary button of his poor jacket,
for which his weak fingers had been
cropping as the death damps gathered.
Never shall l forget the agony in his
eyes the PARKWAY look that crept into
them, as Potch told his tale He held
the little button, he looked at it with
an expression which no diamond or
ruby has ever won; then. with a sigh
that was almost sob. he passed out
He never again spoke of Pat.
He was a changed man. Silence
grew upon him. No one now torment
ed him, but if they had he would not
have cared. His roof was matched
for him the following winter out of
girls pocket money. His wife told
how he looked at the corner where Pat
used to lie on his straw pallet and
muttered: He'd have had dry bed
if he was here now. But, sure, he's
better off,"
Potch went on carrying turf, even to
the henhouse if he was bid, without
a protest. He did not care now Then
suddenly he broke down and was sent
to the workhouse infirmary. The doc
tor knew him, and he was we'll and
kindly treated.
He lay there, taking little notice even
of his wife, who came constantly to
see him, bringing what poor little
dainty she could. But one day, with a
few new laid eggs, she had also a
piece of news. The girl who years be-
fore had got his roof matched had
come back to the old place for few
days.
He reused at the sound of her name.
Bring her those eggs, Biddy" he
said. Tell her Potch sent them TO
her-'twas all he had to send" Then
the poor head fell back, a faint CLEAN
of content in the pathetic eyes.