“Whist, child,” exclaimed Grandmother Barry, “would a saint tend wild pigs on the mountains for any man, chief or no chief?”
“He was a brave lad,” repeated the peddler. “It should be told oftener how he served one of the chiefs for six long years, and served him well. He set a good example to the flighty gossoons nowadays that can’t stick to one thing for as long as a month at a time.”
“Danny has worked for Farmer Flynn ten years,” said Mary Ellen, fearing the peddler might think her brother a “flighty gossoon.”
“Father Burke said that St. Patrick went all over Ireland, ringing his bell and preaching to the people,” said Kathleen, beginning to remember some of the story.
“So he did; he was a wonderful preacher,” said Grandmother Barry, “and he was Bishop of all Ireland for many years.”
“Was that when Great-grandmother Connell was a little girl?” asked Mary Ellen, who thought her great-grandmother very old.
“Whist, jewel; it was nearly fifteen hundred years ago that St. Patrick died,” her father told her, “and your great-grandmother’s only ninety.”
“Tell us the story of St. Patrick,” begged Kathleen. “I’ll remember it this time, for sure.”
“Well, now,” the peddler began, “when Patrick was a lad of sixteen he was brought to Ireland and sold as a slave to one of the rich chiefs, who sent him to tend swine on the mountains. At first he was no doubt sad and lonely, but he bore his troubles bravely and thought often of the good Father in Heaven.”
Kathleen’s father rose quickly, and going to a box in the corner of the room, he took out a book and brought it back to the fire.