"Jist wan spoonful," McGrath said. I emptied my bowl at a nod from Anna, rinsed it out at the tub and filled it with broth. McGrath sat on the doorstep.
After the dinner Anna read a story from the Weekly Budget and the family and guests sat around and listened. Then came the weekly function, over which there invariably arose an altercation amongst the children. It was the Sunday visit of the Methodist tract distributor—Miss Clarke. It was not an unmixed dread, for sometimes she brought a good story and the family enjoyed it. The usual row took place as to who should go to the door and return the tract. It was finally decided that I should face the ordeal. My preparation was to wash my feet, rake my hair into order and soap it down, cover up a few holes and await the gentle knock on the doorpost. It came and I bounded to the door, tract in hand.
"Good afternoon," she began, "did your mother read the tract this week?"
"Yis, mem, an' she says it's fine."
"Do you remember the name of it?"
"'Get yer own Cherries,'" said I.
"B-u-y," came the correction in clear tones from behind the partition.
"'Buy yer own Cherries,' it is, mem."
"That's better," the lady said. "Some people get cherries, other people buy them."
"Aye."