Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water:—
Jack fell down
And broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.”
Widow M’Carthy rented four or five acres of land, in a rural part of the county of Cork, in Ireland. She was a respectable, hard working, cleanly, honest, upright woman; and the landlord, seeing that she was likely to become quite as good a tenant as any one could be, and indeed, far better than most persons in her neighbourhood, allowed her to keep the little farm after her husband’s death. It was well in him to do so, for she managed the land properly, paid her rent, and every other debt, with punctuality and honour. The good widow had two daughters, the stay and comfort of her old age, the pride of the village, the pattern of all good and thrifty qualities to the neighbours. Their names were Betsey and Jill. They were young, good-looking, cheerful and industrious. Under their management the cottage became cleanly, neat and comfortable. The pigs and poultry were kept out of the house, in their proper places. The floors were regularly swept and scoured; the table, though it was only a deal table, was always so white, and clean, and sweet-looking, that positively it looked quite pretty. A neat Dutch clock stood over the dresser, among the shining crockery-ware; and click! click! click! it went, so cheerfully, that even the old hoary figure of Time with a scythe, which was painted on it, looked benignant and happy, as if well satisfied with his continual harvest of holy and profitable hours. Betsey, the elder of the two girls, was unfortunately lame, from an accident she had received in her babyhood. She could not, therefore, be so active as her sister, but she made up for it in the activity of her mind. She was wise and thoughtful, and her mother relied upon her much for advice and sympathy in times of difficulty. Jill, the younger, was the pride and joy of the neighbourhood. She was here, there, and everywhere, wherever there was work to be done. She milked the cow; she baked the bread, she could mend the thatch, and weed the garden. And then she had such a pretty face, such a neat little figure; her hair was always so clean and so nicely arranged. Many lads of the village were in love with her, and one among them was Jack Sullivan, the son of their nearest neighbour. He had known her for a great many years, without caring more about her than he did about other young maidens; but one day as he was passing the widow’s front garden, he saw Betsey leaning over the half-door of the cottage, and Jill mounted on a ladder, mending the thatch of the roof. There was a gentle breeze stirring, and it played and whispered about her little form very lovingly. The small check apron round her pretty waist, waved and fluttered about, and curled round behind, as if playing at hide-and seek with the morning breeze, and now and then a wavy movement of the neat stuff gown showed her well-turned ancles and little feet. The sunlight played upon her shining hair; her face was so rosy and full of smiles; her hands moved so nimbly at her work, and all the curves of her young figure were so graceful, that Jack stood still a long time to look at her. From that hour he fell in love. Jack himself was a good-looking fellow, very good-looking indeed. He had, besides, free, frank, good-natured ways, and was a great favourite in the village for his generosity, and his gay and lively manners. He could play the fiddle a little, sing a song with spirit, and dance as gaily as if all the blood within him were a current of joy. He became now a frequent visitor at the widow’s cottage. What he came for was soon plain enough to the mother and to Betsey, and indeed to any one that observed; but Jill—sly, blushing, little Jill—pretended not to know anything about it. One day, however, she knew all about it, because Jack told her; and oh! to see the little maiden then! It was well there was nobody by,—she could not have borne it. She lifted up that little apron of hers, and covered her pretty face with it, burning with blushes. Jack had put such an important question to her, that it was quite impossible she could answer it at once without consulting her mother; but the blushing brow, the sparkling eyes, the trembling little hand, were almost answer enough for him.
The mother shook her head when she heard of what had passed between Jack and her daughter. She loved him for his generosity and liveliness, but she knew well his defects of character. Jack was not a thrifty fellow. He loved his pleasures better than his business. His cottage and garden were both in sad disorder. His fences, too, were broken down; the weeds grew in his fields; and, altogether, his affairs were in anything but a prosperous condition. Of course, the good mother could not think of such a suitor to her thrifty little daughter, until he altered his habits and gave some promise of becoming a steady and industrious man. Jack was told this—and his conscience, besides, whispered to him that he had been careless and indolent, and that it was nothing more than right that Jill’s little hand should be denied him till he had shown some proofs of care and frugality. But with such a reward to encourage him and urge him on, he felt a new life at his heart; he made a manful beginning of improvement, and probably would have gone successfully on, but for an accident which brought sorrow to both families, and for a time disabled Jack altogether. There had been long drought in the summer; a drop of rain had not fallen for a fortnight; the ponds in the neighbourhood were dried up, and the wells gave but a very scanty supply. The best of these was at some distance from the village at the top of a hill, with a well-worn path on one side, but covered with grass and underwood on all the others. One day, Jill, wanting water for her cows and for household purposes, proposed to go up the hill to fetch some. Jack readily offered to help her. He obtained a donkey cart, and filled it with buckets, and drove to the foot of the hill, with Jill in company. They went up together, Jack holding her by the hand and helping her on. When they had reached the top and filled their pails, he proposed to go down the other side of the hill, the distance being a little shorter. It was steeper and more slippery it was true, but still he thought he could venture. He went first, with a full pail in his hand, and Jill followed behind him. They had not gone more than half-way down when Jack’s feet began to slide over the smooth, steep ground, and down he fell on his side, and rolled, over and over. Poor Jill screamed, leaned forward, and, in her turn, fell and rolled down the hill behind Jack. On they went, over and over down the hill, like a couple of cricket-balls, and nothing could stop them till they came to the bottom. The mere rolling down hill would not perhaps have have done them any great harm, for the ground at that part was soft and grassy; but the worst of it was that Jill’s pail—when it fell from her hand—struck Jack’s head, and it went bump! bump! all the way down-hill close to him, hitting him now and then on the ribs rather roughly. They were both picked up at the foot of the hill, and placed, carefully, side by side in a cart, with a truss of straw strewn over it to relieve the jolting. It was soon evident that Jill, though a good deal frightened, was not much hurt; but Jack’s fall was somewhat serious. His head was bleeding, and, when the Doctor examined him, he said, that two of his ribs were broken. A day or two’s nursing brought Jill round again, for there was nothing seriously the matter with her; but Jack’s illness kept him to his bed some weeks.
Stars shine in the night, and so love burns with peculiar fervour in the hours of affliction and sorrow. Jill and her mother waited upon their patient with tenderest care. His food and his medicine were given to him by their gentle hands; he sank into slumber at night with the echoes of their prayers in his ears; and when he awoke in the morning, the first eye-beams that met his own were theirs. The love in his heart strengthened, and grew under such influences. He made all sorts of generous resolves as to what he would do when he got well—how hard he would work! how prudent and careful he would be! Nothing was too hard to do or to endure, to gain such a wife as Jill.
With such excellent nursing, Jack recovered in due time, and came out of his illness quite well and cheerful, One evening, after his recovery, he was seated in the widow’s kitchen, talking to Jill and Betsey, while they arranged their garden-pots of flowers in the window, when the door opened, and Father M’Callagh, the parish priest, entered the room, holding a letter in his hand.