Kathleen’s Sacrifice by M. A. Thurston

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Feb 21, 1907

Kathleen’s Sacrifice

By M. A. Thurston

A TRUE STORY

“The strike’s on, an’ we go out to-morrow,” said Dennis Coogan, as he entered the little kitchen where his wife was engaged in preparing the evening meal.

“Will it be a long strike, Dennis?” asked Mary Coogan, in a tone of anxiety.

“Sure it’ll be too long for us if it lasts but a week,” replied Dennis, gloomily.

Mary Coogan glanced toward a group of children who were listening to a wonderful fairy tale which their eldest sister was relating to them.

“I’d not be minding it at all if it wasn’t for the ones beyant,” she said in a whisper—“and,” she added in a choking voice, “Kathleen’s that frail she’ll be sure to suffer for the want of things I’ll not be able to get.”

Mary Coogan covered her head with her apron, and rocking her body to and fro, sobbed aloud.

The children, drawn to the spot by the sound, clustered around their mother, and soon filled the air with cries of infantile sympathy.

“Hush, childers!” said a low, sweet voice, “Ye’ll be after makin’ all of us that sad we’ll be heart-broken. I’d not be takin’ on so, mother,” she continued in a soothing tone: “sure an’ father’ll find a way out o’ the throuble.”

“Ah, child, ye don’t know, ye don’t know. I’ve been through it, an’ I know the sufferin’,” sobbed the mother.

“I’ll not be shtayin’ where there’s confusion,” said Dennis, gruffly. Putting on his coat, he left the cabin, and turned his footsteps toward a saloon where he knew that he would find many of the strikers. By the time Dennis reached his destination, he had evidently become reconciled to “confusion,” for the loud sounds that greeted him as he entered the room changed the sullen expression upon his countenance into one of eager interest, and erelong his wife, his helpless little ones, and the cloud that hung over them, were for the time forgotten.

Two, three, four weeks passed away.

“Sure father’s not himself since the strike,” murmured Kathleen, sadly. “He’s that rough to mother an’ the childer, an’ ’twas but to-day he raised his hand to strike me.”

The child’s blue eyes filled with tears, and her lips quivered at remembrance of the unkind action.

“What’s that yer sayin’, Kathleen, darlint?” asked her mother, kindly.

“I’d not be worryin’ ye, mother, wid tales, but—but it’s about father, I’ve been thinkin’ he’s not like himself, an’—”

“No more he is,” interrupted the mother, “an’ ye always came nearest his heart on account o’ the fall that lamed yer back. ’Tis the strike that’s doin’ it,” she said, bitterly. “When the men are workin’, they’ve no time to washte at Mike Flannagan’s saloon. He’s there to-night, an’ he’s taken the bit o’ money I’d laid by to get a bite an’ sup for all of ye,” she concluded, wringing her hands.

As time passed on, the anxious expression upon Mary Coogan’s face deepened. Dennis became more sullen and uncommunicative, and the time that should have been spent in devising a way out of the network of difficulties that surrounded him, was passed at Mike Flannagan’s saloon, in the society of men who were seldom in a condition to reason.

It is late in the afternoon. Gradually the evening shadows creep around the little cabin. No “beacon” shines from the small window to welcome the father upon his return. Cold, weary, and hungry herself, Mary Coogan doled out to each child a scant portion of thin porridge; then when the little ones were sleeping soundly, she lay down beside them, and erelong was enjoying the blessed oblivion which slumber brings to those who suffer.

Meanwhile, Kathleen—with her four-year-old sister Norah clasped in her arms—devised a plan that would enable her to help those she loved.

Slipping quietly out of bed, so that she would not disturb her sister, Kathleen crept slowly down the rickety stairs that led to the kitchen.

“Sure an’ it breaks me heart to see mother an’ the childer sufferin’,” murmured the girl, as she lifted a large tin bucket and turned toward the outer door. “Mother’s that tired she’ll not hear the bit o’ noise I’ll make unfastenin’ the door,” she whispered.

Closing the door behind her, the child grasped the bucket which she held in her hand firmly, and did not pause until she reached the railroad.

“It’s in luck I am to-night,” she said softly. “The moon’s shinin’ like day, an’ the coals is that thick I’ve me bucket nearly full a’ready. The bucket’s heavy now,” she murmured, as she walked slowly homeward; “but,” she added with a smile, “it’ll be light enough when all the coal’s in the shed.”

Three times Kathleen returned to the railroad, refilled her bucket, and with tired limbs and aching back, returned to the shed, where she deposited her burden.

“I’d—I’d—like to go back for more,” she panted, “but—but it’s so tired I am.”

“It’s thoughtful o’ yer father, Kathleen, to be bringin’ in coal unbeknownest to us,” said Mrs. Coogan the next day.

“I’ll be after lettin’ mother think it’s father’s doin’s; it’ll be sort o’ comfortin’ to her,” thought Kathleen.

“It’s not a bad man he is at all, but aisy led asthray,” said Mrs. Coogan, with a sigh.

“I’ll be goin’ out for the day, mother, if ye don’t mind,” said Kathleen, hesitatingly.

“Go, child,” said the mother, “it’ll brighten ye up a bit to go among the neighbors. Sorra a bit o’ comfort ye get at home these days,” she concluded, sadly.

“There’s piles o’ coals layin’ on the thracks, an’ I’ve the day before me,” said Kathleen, swinging the bucket which she held in her hand to and fro. She paused in front of a small, neat cabin, hesitated for a moment, then rapped gently upon the door. The summons was answered by a stout woman, who said, kindly:—

“An’ what might ye be wantin’, dear?”

“I—I—thought bein’ as the men have struck, ye’d mebbe be wantin’ coal, Mrs. Rafferty,” said Kathleen, timidly.

“Indade I’ve been sufferin’ for the want of it these three days,” replied Mrs. Rafferty. “I’d not be in this fix,” she continued, “if ’twasn’t that the lads is in their beds wid the faver, an’ the ould man’s laid up wid rheumatic in his jints.”

“What would ye be willin’ to pay for a bucket o’ coal?” asked Kathleen.

Mrs. Rafferty considered a moment, then said: “They’re askin’ tin cints at the shtores, but if it’s brought to me

door, sure I’d be willin’ to pay two cints extra.”

“I’ll bring it to the door,” said Kathleen, eagerly.

“You, child!” exclaimed Mrs. Rafferty. “Why, it ’ud——”

Kathleen was off before the sentence was finished. At the expiration of half an hour she returned, and going quietly into Mrs. Rafferty’s shed, poured out the contents of the bucket. “Five buckets o’ coal, an’ I’ll get sixty cents,” said Kathleen, as she emptied the last bucketful.

“Indade an’ ye have earned the money, an’ I’m rale glad to git the coal,” said Mrs. Rafferty, as she slipped sixty cents into Kathleen’s hand. “There’s lots o’ people ’ud be glad to buy all the coal ye can pick,” she called out, as Kathleen walked down the street.

“Sure I’m that tired I’m ready to fall,” said Kathleen, wearily. Her face brightened as a small grocery appeared in view. “Mother’ll be glad to have the cup o’ tay she’s been wantin’ this many a day.”

Entering the store, Kathleen purchased oatmeal, flour, tea, sugar, a loaf of bread, and a tiny bit of butter. As she lifted the bucket in which she had placed her purchases, a sharp pain darted through her back, and she caught her breath to stifle the cry that almost escaped her. A woman who was going in the same direction gave her a “lift” all the way to the door of the cabin. As Kathleen entered the kitchen, where her mother and the children were huddled close to the fire, she heard Norah exclaim: “A bit o’ bread, mammy; it’s hungry I am.”

“Hush, darlint,” said the mother, soothingly, “Daddy’ll be comin’, an’ he’ll surely bring ye a bite.”

“See what I’ve brought ye, Norah, dear,” said Kathleen, advancing.

“O Kathleen! sure an’ ye’ve done nothin’ that’ll be agin ye?” said the mother, in a trembling voice.

Kathleen’s face flushed. “It’s a little secret I have of me own, mother,” she answered; “by and by I’ll tell ye all about it.”

Kathleen’s eyes filled with tears when she saw how eagerly her brothers and sisters ate the food which she had brought to them. She ate sparingly herself. “I’ll not be afther eatin’ me fill, for I can do widout a sight better’n they can,” she said to herself.

“I hope yer father’ll not be forgettin’ that the last bit o’ coal’s on the grate,” said Mrs. Coogan, anxiously.

A startled expression crept into Kathleen’s blue eyes.

“I’ll have to go,” she murmured; “but for me they’d freeze.”

“You’re tired, Kathleen, an’ ’ud better be after goin’ to bed,” said Mrs. Coogan, kindly.

Kathleen crept into her little cot without undressing. Pressing her face close to Norah’s curly head, she murmured: “I’ll not be goin’ to sleep yet, for I’m that tired I’d not waken in time to get the coal.” She heard her father stumble into the house,—heard his sullen reply to a remark made by her mother,—then all was still. The moon was shining bright through the little window at the foot of the cot, and as Kathleen turned to leave the room, she paused for a moment to kiss her sleeping sister. The child stirred.

“Norah cold. Norah want a bite,” murmured the little one.

“It’s Kathleen that’ll not let ye go hungry,” murmured the cripple, as she walked softly down the stairs.

Day after day, night after night, Kathleen worked bravely for those she loved. It was Saturday. The last bucketful of coal had been delivered, and Kathleen hurried to the grocery to buy provisions for the next day.

“Jimmy an’ Ted’ll be six years old to-morrow,” she murmured, pausing in front of a toy-shop. “Ted’ll like that tin soldier in there, an’ Jimmy’ll go wild over the horn.”

“My head feels giddy like,” muttered Kathleen, as she hurried toward home. “I heard that the men were goin’ to work, an’ mebbe I’ll not be goin’ out for coal afther to-night.”

“I’ll put the little presents where they’ll see ’em,” said Kathleen, as she walked softly across the kitchen floor. She laid the tin soldier on Ted’s chair, and hung the tin horn on the door-knob. “Shure an’ I’m tired all over, but mebbe it’s for the last time,” murmured Kathleen, as she lifted the bucket and started toward the railroad. Her bucket was half filled. “I’ll rest for a while on the track,” she said, wearily, as she drew the thin shawl closely around her misshapen shoulders.

The child does not hear a loud, shrill whistle, nor see the brilliant headlight as the huge locomotive rounds a curve in the road. She does not hear the wild cry of the engineer, nor see the pale faces of the conductor and brakeman as the train rushes by the spot where she had paused to “rest.”

Tender hands lift the crippled form, and bear it gently to the rude cabin.

“An’ wasn’t it ye, Dennis, that fetched the coal ivery night these past six weeks?” asked the grief-stricken mother, reproachfully. “Ah, Kathleen, me darlint, sorra’s the day whin yer father left ye to do this!” she wailed.

“Yis, an’ ivery day o’ her life these four weeks she’s picked an’ sold coal to the neighbors,” sobbed Mrs. Rafferty.

“An’ see, her lasht thought was for the childer,” murmured Mrs. Coogan, in a heart-broken whisper, as she pointed to the little toys. “O Kathleen, me darlint, come back to me!” sobbed the mother.

Dennis Coogan knelt by the side of his child; he clasped the hard, discolored little hand in his own rough palm, and with the anguish that only a repentant parent can experience, gazed long and wistfully into the face that had always brightened at the sound of father’s footsteps. A determined expression settled upon Dennis Coogan’s countenance, and his lips moved.

“I’ve lost ye, Kathleen,” he murmured, brokenly, “but not anither drap o’ liquor will I ever touch or drink, an’ I’ll work day an’ night to kape the mother an’ the wee ones from starvin’.”

Dennis kept his pledge, and years afterward, when he had built a cottage of his own, and laid by a snug sum for a “rainy day,” he called his tall sons and comely daughters around him, and told them the story of Kathleen and her sacrifice.—M. A. Thurston, in Nat. Temp. Advocate.