In the first house we called at, a middle-aged woman was
pacing slowly about the unwholesome house with a child in her arms.
My friend inquired where the children were. "They are in the houses
about; all but the one poor boy." "And where is he?" said I. "Well,
he comes home now an' agin; he comes an' goes; sure, we don't know
how. . . . Ah, thin, sir," continued she, beginning to cry, "I'll
tell ye the rale truth, now. He was drawn away by some bad lads, an'
he got three months in the New Bailey; that's God's truth. . . . Ah,
what'll I do wid him," said she, bursting into tears afresh;
"what'll I do wid him? sure, he is my own!" We did not stop long to
intrude upon such trouble as this. She called out as we came away to
tell us that the poor crayter next door was quite helpless. The next
house was, in some respects, more comfortable than the last, though
it was quite as poor in household goods. There was one flimsy deal
table, one little chair, and two half-penny pictures of Catholic
saints pinned against the wall. "Sure, I sold the other table since
you wor here before," said the woman to my friend; "I sold it for
two-an'-aightpence, an' bought this one for sixpence.
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