II Happiness Is Better Than Church
Four more were born—boys all—goodly and ruddy—like their little mother. But, one and all, they surprised and delighted her by growing tall like their father.
“You see, John,” said Betsy, “they are going to be big like you, and good like me.”
Well, one by one, they went out into the world—but never very far from the romping comrade-mother. Away from her the world was neither so gay nor so tender. They never found another woman so altogether lovely.
There was no work for any of them on Sunday, so they would all come home. Indeed, in the country of the Germans of Pennsylvania, no one ever worked on Sunday in that day and generation. And such Sundays as they were! No going to church, I fear—a heinous omission perhaps. But how could they? There was gentle revelry in the little house from the first moment—not a soul of them would have missed that for any church on earth—and no church on earth would have done them so much good—then a feast. Sometimes—when all had work and wages were good—a stewed turkey! And, after it all, kisses and hugs and good-nights—till one thought it would never end.
And, after they were gone, Betsy would cry—and John would take her in his lap and say never a word—leaving her to fall asleep there.
But once, instead of sleeping, she sat up and took John by the throat.
“John! I’m glad they’re not girls—any of them.” For this used to be a complaint of Betsy’s—that none of them were girls.
“Yes,” said John, meekly.
She gripped his throat a little tighter and shook him.
“They’d git married if they were. Girls always do. But boys often have better sense. Ours have, anyhow.”
“We got married,” ventured John.
“Well—of course!” said Betsy, choking him.
But the thing was in her mind all the week. There seemed danger. The next Sunday, at the table, she said:
“Look here! Why don’t some of yous git—git—married?”
Her hand shook as she dealt out the gravy and waited for their answer.
They looked from one to the other. No one knew.
“Funny,” laughed Ben, “but I never thought of it.”
“Nor I,” said Bart.
“Hanged if I know,” piped Fred. “Don’t see no girls like you—”
“Can I marry you, mammy?” laughed Tom, putting his arm around her as she came over to him. It was Tom she was most afraid of. For he was the youngest—and to her he was little short of a god. He had rebellious yellow hair and blue eyes—and little patches of whiskers were beginning to grow on his face.
“Yes,” said his mother, sweeping his girlish lips with a kiss.
“Me, too,” said “old” Ben—and he got it.
And so on all around while John smiled in ecstasy.
“Boys,” said the little mother, “there ain’t no girl I ever saw that’s fit for any of yous—ain’t so, John?”
John, of course, said yes.
Tom got up, and, after turning her back to the rest wiped the tears from his mother’s eyes.
“Boys,” announced the mother, “next Sunday there will be a turkey—and oyster stuffing!”
As she said it she went over and let her arms glide gently around the neck of Will, who had not spoken on the subject of marriage. He caught her hands and drew her arms closer while he smiled up at her—a little sadly. She kissed him on the great forehead, and he understood. There had been a brief love affair for him, but it was over. Simply a successful rival. He never spoke of it—nor did any one else. But at least two—understood.