The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1899-10-12
"Potch, +"
(An irish Character sketch.)


An odd, uncouth name, and one which,
If you knew it applied to christened man,
you would be apt to associate with
creature as odd and uncouth. But the
real Potch had the head of a Greek
statue.
l can see him now, across the gulf
of years. as. with a child's eyes of sol
enn wonder. saw him once, familiar
figure of the everyday life, and marveled
often why such a big man should find
nothing better to do than carry turf.
On his back a well-laden turf creel, slung
by straw rope round his neck, that fig
ure never fades or changes from memo
~ s picture gallery, as in and out, with
slow, heavy foot, Potch plods from the
turf rick to 1.-The house" $50 the people
around used to designate the landlords
residence), filing the turf buckets as fast
as they emptied, in all except the recep-
ton 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 hen-house; and
the salt of Potch's life the nearly perl
odical fight as to who would see TO this.
You would not have supposed that any
sense of dignity could linger in such
poor, monotonous, ground-down life. but
you had only to listen to Potch expound-
ing his views on the subject and find such
an idea fallacy.
The great power in the lower regions
was the cook; her slave the kitchen-maids
and she held that the kitchen boy
Potch-should be another. Each new cook
tried to reduce him to thralldom, 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 kitchen-maid would appeal to
his cempassion-"Sure. it's herself has
me druv this day, but the divil himself
couldn't stand her when there's a COM
pany dinner. Arrahl now, We might see
to the fire in the hin-house this wanst,
or the cratures of hins'H be famished
all out and sorra' an egg theren be In
the mornin'. Do, now, and won't for
git We. Sure, she throws away as much
soup in the sthrainin as 'ud warm the
heart in little Pat
Potch seldom refused, his point being
that the hen-house and its fire were wo-
mans work, and, therefore, degrading to
a man. But. done as a favor-that was
a different thing.
Potch was a married man, and his wife,
when he married her, was a smart, pref
ty young girl, with delicate coloring and
lovely, fair hair. 1t was affirmed that,
though satisfied with her personal attrac-
lions, Potch was determined to test her
temper before he clinched the bargain,
and that the test he chose was that of
slyly pushing her into bog hole as
they were 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 mar
ried her the following Sunday, and faced
the world with two shillings a week! This
was his stipend, considered ample, be-
cause 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. I think
that the family were away, the poor
wages had ceased, and that Potch must
have been one of the harvesters, in an
Other part of England. However 1t was,
the wife and her sons were along among
the hoppers; 1t was a wet season, and
Pat cought cold and died on the road
side in his mothers arms his daddys
name the last word on his lips.
'I have nothing to send him but this,
mother; cut it off and give II to him
from his little Pat" This was the solitary
button of hts poor jacket, for which his
weak fingers had been cropping, as the
death damps gathered. Never shall
forget the agony in his eyes, the far-away
look that crept into them, as Potch told
his tale. He held the little button, he
I.1I-- =
diamond or ruby has even won; then,
with a sigh that was almost a sob, he
passed out. He never again spoke Of
Pat.
He was a changed man. Silence grew
upon him; no one now tormented him;
but If they had he would not have careo.
His roof was matched for him the fol-
lowing winter out of girls pocket-mon-
ey. 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 hen-house If he was bid, without a
protest; he did not care now. Then sud-
denly he broke down, and was sent to
the work-house infrmary. The doctor
knew him, and he was well 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 piece of news. The
girl who years before had got his roof
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 10 her-'twas
all he had to send" Then the poor head
fell back, faint CLEAN of content in
the pathetic eyes.
That night Potch died. The enigma was
solved. He was wiser than any OF US
ere the morning t-Where?-Dublin
Herald.
A Possible Dilemma
from Household