“Oh, John,” cried his mother, “if we only had a place as good! I never covet what is my neighbor’s, but I do want to be independent.”
“Can’t you pack your little effects and go with us to Oregon?” asked Joseph, a great lump rising in his throat.
The old man looked anxiously at his wife. The wife looked inquiringly at her husband.
“It will be just as father says,” said the wife, submissively.
“An old man is like an old tree,” began the father, bowing his head upon the table. “You can transplant a man or a tree, but you can’t make ’em take root to do much good in new soil after they get old. With the young it’s different. It’s out o’ sight, out o’ mind, with them. They can take root anywhere if the conditions are favorable and they want to change.”
“That’s right, father,” echoed the wife. “We’re too old to make a new start in a new country. Besides, the expense of transplanting us to so great a distance would go a long way toward taking care of us nearer home. I’d like it mighty well if we could live near all our children in our old days; but if it is better for them,—and I reckon it is,—the sacrifices we must make to bear the separation mustn’t count. We ought to be used to privation and poverty by this time.”
“We have all heard of the Irishman’s way of feeding, or not feeding, his horse!” exclaimed Joseph. “The plan seemed successful for a few days, but just when the animal was supposed to be used to the treatment, the ungrateful creature died.”
“I could keep the wolf from the door a few years longer if it wasn’t for my rheumatism,” said the father. “The after-clap of old hardships gets the better of me now and then. I’m only able, much of the time, to potter round the place and help your mother at odd jobs. I reckon she would miss me if I should be called away, however.”
“God grant that we may be called away together when we are wanted in the land o’ the leal,” said the good wife, fervently; and her husband responded with a hearty “Amen.”