"Ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring."
There had been but one job that day—a pair of McGuckin's boots. They had been half-soled and heeled and my sister had taken them home, with orders what to bring home for supper.
The last handful of peat had been put on the fire. The cobbler's bench had been put aside for the night and we gathered closely around the hearth.
The town clock struck eight.
"What th' h—l's kapin' th' hussy!" Jamie said petulantly.
"Hugh's at a Fenian meeting more 'n likely an' it's worth a black eye for th' wife t' handle money when he's gone," Anna suggested.
"More likely he's sleepin' off a dhrunk," he said.
"No, Jamie, he laves that t' the craithers who give 'im a livin'."
"Yer no judge o' human naiture, Anna. A squint out o' th' tail o' yer eye at what McGuckin carries in front ov 'im wud tell ye betther if ye had th' wits to obsarve."
Over the fire hung a pot on the chain and close to the turf coals sat the kettle singing. Nothing of that far-off life has left a more lasting impression than the singing of the kettle. It sang a dirge that night, but it usually sang of hope. It was ever the harbinger of the thing that was most indispensable in that home of want—a cup of tea. Often it was tea without milk, sometimes without sugar, but always tea. If it came to a choice between tea and bread, we went without bread.