w," said Mike setting his face westward and
tramping the steerage deck. "I like the say too, I belave, me own
grandfather was a sailor, an' 't is a fine life for a man. Here's
little Dan goin' to Ameriky and niver mistrustin'. We'll be sindin'
the gossoon back again, rich and fine, to the owld place by and by,
'tis thrue for us, Biddy."

But Biddy, like many another woman, had set great changes in motion
and then longed to escape from their consequences. She was much
discomposed by the ship's unsteadiness. She accused patient Mike of
having dragged her away from home and friends. She grew very white in
the face, and was helped to her hard steerage berth where she had
plenty of time for reflection upon the vicissitudes of seafaring. As
for Mike, he grew more and more enthusiastic day by day over their
prospects as he sat in the shelter of the bulkhead and tended little
Dan and talked with his companions as they sailed westward.

Who of us have made enough kindly allowance for the homesick
quick-witted ambitious Irish men and women, who have landed every year
with such high hopes on our shores. There are some of a worse sort, of
whom their native country might think itself well rid--but what
thrifty New England housekeeper who takes into her home one of the
pleasant-faced little captive maids, from Southern Ireland, has half
understood the change of surroundings. That was a life in the open air
under falling showers and warm sunshine, a life of wit and humor, of
lavishness and lack of provision for more than the passing day--of
constant companionship with one's neighbors, and a cheerful serenity
and lack of nervous anticipation born of the vicinity of the Gulf
Stream. The climate makes the characteristics of Cork and Kerry; the
fierce energy of the Celtic race in America is forced and stimulated
by our own keen air. The beauty of Ireland is little hinted at by an
average orderly New England town--many a young girl and many a
blundering sturdy fellow is heartsick with the homesickness and
restraint of his first year in this golden country of hard work. To so
many of them a house has been but a shelter for the night--a
sleeping-place: if you remember that, you do not wonder at fumbling
fingers or impatience with our houses full of trinkets. Our needless
tangle of furnishing bewilders those who still think the flowers that
grow of themselves in the Irish thatch more beautiful than anything
under the cover of our prosaic sh