Mr. Price’s interest in this little community did not stop here; he persuaded Bonny Betty to let her son Ben go to the hospital, and have the wen on his forehead examined, promising that he would himself pay all the necessary expenses; such as suitable clothes, travelling charges and extra nursing. The boy was so eager and the neighbours so clamourous in their entreaties, that poor Betty gave a reluctant assent. Ben went, and in one month he returned perfectly cured—the wen taken out, and his eye-sight very much improved. Kate was sent to town next, and by means of Casey’s dormant balance, and Mrs. M’Curdy’s kind treatment, the injured spine, although not entirely restored to its healthy state, was prevented from further distortion. She remained under medical care, and it was owing to this humane and judicious treatment that she was relieved of her lameness, a lameness caused by general debility. A few bottles of Swaim’s panacea, entirely removed the scrofulous complaint of Jenny. Bob was found to be nearly devoured by worms; the doctor of the village, when called in, soon removed his complaint, and his hearing improved as his stomach recovered its tone. But poor little Christie was beyond cure; he died in the fall to the very great grief of poor Betty, who was passionately attached to her children. The little deaf and dumb girl was sent to the asylum in Hartford, and there she received an education, which fitted her as a teacher to others of her own class. The lifting up of one kind hand did all this for poor Bonny Betty; five good little creatures, helpless and forlorn, an incumbrance to their mother, and a tax on all around them, were thus made useful members of society; whereas, in the course of time, they must necessarily have gone to the alms-house.
But to return to our friends in the shanties. Early, full an hour before sunrise, on the fifteenth of April, all the gardeners were at work under old Daniel M’Leary’s superintendence; for his very youth seemed renewed, so much was he raised in his own estimation. Instead of being a cumberer of the earth, as in his fits of despondency he used to call himself, he was now a second Napoleon ruling over the destiny of others—their well doing was entrusted to his care, and many were his mental promises to be just—if he could keep them. At the sound of his shrill whistle the little band left off work, in time to eat their breakfast, and be ready to go to their several employments when the bells rung. At twelve all ate their dinner, and for half an hour were again in their garden plot where they wrought—and pleasant it was to work in the open air under such a glorious sky, with more satisfaction than they ever did in their lives; for the proceeds of their labour was their own.
Their supper was ready when their working hours were over, and once more they went up to their garden, and it was difficult for Daniel to persuade them to leave off at the allotted time. Instead of lounging about before a dram shop, which was their custom in the evening, and often becoming noisy if not riotous, they went quietly to bed and slept soundly. Even Pat Conolly, the overworked boy declared, that although he went very tired to his rest, it was a far different sort of fatigue from that which he nightly felt before.
By the first of June, the whole lot was one beautiful green, bright spot. The land, naturally good, had been so well manured, and carefully laboured, that the seeds could not help coming up freely. But if the truth must be told, Bonny Betty and the three boys’ gardens, were more forward than the rest; at least they had a more smiling gay look. And no wonder, for in the first place, women and children will put a few flower seeds in the garden; in the second place, the boys and Betty had the double advantage of working in the afternoons, as Bonny Betty having a little shop, scarcely ever went out to work by the day, and the children only worked half a day in the mills; and lastly Daniel M’Leary lent a hand “to beautify the women and childers’ bit garding.”
Every one in the neighbourhood had an eye on this project, and every one predicted that the woman and boys might persevere, but that Sammy Oram would give out first, Davy Conolly next, Lazy Jemmy next, and, lastly, Larry M’Gilpin. Sammy Oram was very near verifying this prediction in consequence of his taking it into his head to offer himself as a helpmate to Bonny Betty; but the reader shall hear the progress and end of the affair in a letter received by Mr. Price from Daniel M’Leary.
“Your honour asks how we are getting on—O beautifully, your honour, and all work with good heart, with a pleasant thought of your praise in the fall. I am glad your honour mistakes about Lazy Jemmy—Lazy Jemmy no longer, for he’s here before any one, and brings his little boy with him, and because there’s never a spade small enough for so young a boy, he’s bought him one, your honour. I’m thinking Jemmy will hold out, and his little girrel, I’m tould, is crying to come with the daddy to help too; and why should she not? for here’s Bonny Betty’s little Jenny, now quite cured, God bless your honour for ever and ever, she weeds and helps her mother at every chance. So I bid Jemmy bring the little girrel with him.
“Larry laughs and works, and runs over to one garden to help the boys a bit, though they bid him keep off, and then he digs among the potatoes for Bonny Betty; but he’s broke off that, your honour, for as soon as she found it out she went to his garding and dug just as many rows as he did. I’m thinking it will be hard to tell which of the men’s gardings will get the premium, for they’re jealous like, and they all put in the same things and work in the same way as near as possible, but they scorn the flowers, your honour.
“David Conolly still drinks, but for very shame’s sake he works morning and evening, and he would get behind hand only that that fine boy, his son, just steps over now and then and keeps the garding up to the others. His wife tould me t’other day that for certain David does not drink so much, and she’s certain he will leave off in time, for now on Sundays he takes up a book or lies in bed after chapel hours, and this she thinks is a good sign. Pat, the boy, is another crater, your honour; his master at the factory is well pleased with the change in him, and agrees to his only coming half a day, since he’s all the better for it, and his mother says for the last week he has not had any of those bad night sweats, and he does not talk in his sleep—so the change of work has done him good.
Sammy Oram is none the worse for working out of doors, and he’s better tempered too, your honour, for we none of us took much to Sammy, he was so soured like, owing to his sitting all day cobbling shoes and fretting. He thought at one time of making orphans of his boys and getting them all off his hands in the Girard College, for the kind gentlemen there made it out at one time that all childer that had only one parent was orphans, but our priest, father M’Guire, tould him that so many orphans came with their daddies, that the overseers, or whatever their names may be, found that, large as the college was, it would not hold all the orphans that the daddies brought. Father M’Guire said that the truth ought to be tould, that very few mothers took their orphans; they preferred to educate them themselves.
“When Sammy, your honour, found there was no chance to get his little boys off his hands as orphans, he then thought to fall in love with Bonny Betty, for she’s now well off in the world, thanks to your honour. So one day last week he stept over the row of currant bushes, nimbly like, and says, ‘Mistress Kelly,’ says he, ‘you and I have wrought side by side since the 15th of April, and it’s now June. I’m thinking we could work on this way to the end of our lives, and I’ll be a good fader to your children, and keep you from such hard work as this, for it’s a shame to see a fine woman like yourself, Mistress Kelly, working like a man any how.’ Well, what does Bonny Betty do but one thing, and Sammy Oram might be sure she’d tell; indeed we were all in the garding at the time, and saw them speak together, and we saw her lift him, easy like, with one hand, by the waistband behind, over the currant bushes, and set him gently down on the other side, and then Betty she laughed out loud, scornful like. Sammy Oram, after that, had no heart to work next to Bonny Betty. ‘And I knew what he comed next to me for at the time,’ said she, ‘but I said I’ll fit him when he’s ready to spake—he a fader to my childer—he’s not a fader to his own. There’s Lizzy Conolly, she’s a good enough body for him, and he’ll find her a better mammy to his childer than I would be.’ Sammy’s a man, your honour, that soon tires of a wife. I remember once he tould me when his first wife had been a long time ailen, that he wished he could get her back to Ireland to her fader, he did not see why he was obliged to take care of another man’s child. But Sammy’s an honest man, your honour, and he’ll may be do well yet. I think the hint of Lizzy Conolly not a bad one, and she’s fond of little childer. We are all wishing to see your honour, not forgetting our respects to Mrs. M’Curdy and sweet little Nory. I remain your honour’s humble and obedient servant,