“Begorra,” said the old man, “I didn’t expict this aff ye. I tuk ye for wan that thought anything good enough for the likes of us.”
Explaining my wish to publish the diary I asked him to tell me what he knew about its writer.
“Sure he was my nevy, an I will tell ye awl about him.”
Though it was mid-October the day was warm and the sun unpleasantly hot, and the old man suggested we should go to the orchard, where he could tell me what he knew without interruption. It proved a long interview for I had many questions to ask and the substance of his statement, though not in his words, I will now give as an introduction to the diary.
It was in the year 1847 myself and wife were behind the house cutting hay. There was no mowing-machine those days; no, not even a scythe could be used because of the stumps, and we were picking the locks of hay out atween the stones and stumps with our hooks. It was a hot day and we had been at work since sunrise, so our backs were tired enough, but we could not rest, for there was much to do and we had no help beside ourselves. We were working hard and fast, when a voice came ahint us that made us start.
“Uncle, wanna you look roun at me?”
There stood a girl, with a bundle in her right hand. By her figure you might say she was 17 or thereabout; by her face she was an old woman, for the bones were sticking out of the tight drawn skin and her skin was a deadly grey, with black streaks above and below the eyes. My first thought was the colleen was demented.
“God save you kindly,” says I, “but why do you name me uncle?”
“I am your brother’s child.”
You might have knocked me down with a feather, I was so astonished.