Australian Tales - Setis

heard, when I got back to the station, was that Jem Wedges wos dead an
buried, poor fellow! I niver tried to hang meself agin, nor I niver will if I
kape me sinses. I allers think my poor owld mother hud somethin to do
wid the breakin ov that strap; an nobody'ill make me think she hadn't. I
was mighty sober for a long time after that sheavo; still I wasn't meself at
all, for a very little noise at night used to set me tremblin like an owld
lady in a cellar full of rats.”
“O Micky, that is indeed a dreadful tale,” said Mr. Hopewell. “You
were providentially saved from an awful doom, for which you should
thank God with all your heart. Was your mother a good woman?”
“Indeed she was, sir,” replied Micky, while the tears coursed down his
rugged face. “She was a dear lovin owld sowl; and shure enough she's
gone to heaven. I can call to mind, as plain as if it were but a week
agone, how plazed she wor whin she could coax me to go to church wid
her, which wasn't very often, more shame for me. An how she wad pray
be me bed after she thought I was fast asleep. Ah, many times I've heard
her sighin' and sobbin, an prayin God to bless me, wicked haythin as I
wor. I can remember, too, the prayer she tached me to say whin I wor a
gossoon, not taller nor my shtick, an the hymns she used to sing — for
she could sing like a bird, ay, sweeter nor all the birds in the bush. Ah,
poor sowl! I'll never hear her darlin voice agin.”
“Can you repeat one of the prayers your good old mother taught you,
Micky?” asked Mr. Hopewell kindly.
“I don't think I can, sir; for somethin sticks in me throat, an nearly
chokes me, wheniver I think ov anythin me mother tached me; but I'll
thry to say one, or a bit ov one, if it will plaze yez, sir.” Poor Micky thus
began to repeat a simple little form of prayer; but before he had uttered
three sentences, he burst into an immoderate fit of weeping, and sobbed
as if his heart would burst. “Och, mercy, mercy! I can't spake it if I was
to be killed outright. I havn't said that prayer for nigh forty years. Och me
darlint owld mother! it smashes me intirely to think on yez, so it does; an
I'm feard I broke your tinder lovin heart too, wid my wickedness. Och
hone! och hone! The darlint owld cratur; I shall niver see her agin, niver,
niver, niver!” Poor Micky then put his head on his knees, and cried
aloud; while his prudent companion sat quietly by, until his paroxysm of
grief was over.
“I am pleased to see these signs of affectionate remembrance of your
dear mother, Micky,” said Mr. Hopewell, at length breaking a long
silence. “But you need not sorrow without hope, friend; you may meet
her again in Heaven, and share with her the joys of that happy home of
rest and peace for ever.”
“Och, sir! Ye don't know what a wicked wretch I've bin, or yez
wouldn't be after saying that, I'm sartin. Whisht, sir, an I'll tell yez
truthfully, as ye've bin sich a kind friend to me. I onst robbed a church,