OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 



Her answer was always the same : 



"Old age, Alanna!" 



Her name was Mrs. O'Brien, which was interpreted Mobie 



by our baby lips. 



In same fashion the first nurse, whom I only vaguely 



remember, erect, small, severe, and kind, had degenerated 



from Mrs. Hughes into Shuzzie / and the queer, tiny head 



housemaid, baptized Bridget, was Dadgie. A unique 



personage this, minute as she was active, with bobbing 



bunches of grey curls on each side of her grey net cap 



with purple ribbons which were tied under her chin. Upon 



the rare occasions when some damage occurred to the 



china or glass under her hands, she would trot into my 



mother with the announcement : 



" Oh, ma'am, I've made a ' 'foo pas I ' ' 



No one knew where she had picked up this inappropriate 



bit of French. 



Dear, quaint, pathetic, busy little creature, buzzing about 



the house with a flapping duster ! I have a vision of her 



too, as I write : her huge poke bonnet overshadowing the 



small, important face , her bobbing curls as she fluttered 



in to confession in the oratory on those monthly occasions 



when the old parish priest another figure out of long past 



times, he too, with his white head, his black stockings and 



buckle shoes, his full-skirted coat came out from the little 



country town to " hear " the household. 



My mother used to call the three old women servants her 

 three duchesses. Alas! two of these dignitaries passed 

 away very early in my recollection. Fortunately, Mobie, 

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