44 ON GREENLAND AT DUCK-FLIGHT. 



poems of Irish wakes than this reality. There 

 were from fifteen to twenty people present, of 

 different ages, and most of them were on their 

 knees praying solemnly and earnestly for the 

 repose of the soul of the departed. The father 

 sat wringing his hands silently and gazing at 

 the table with its ghastly freight; the older 

 women, in a group, were telling their beads 

 with hushed voices. At times the door-latch 

 would be raised by a new-comer, who instantly 

 uncovered and knelt at the very threshold for 

 a few minutes, and then took his or her place 

 in a corner of the room without a word ot 

 greeting to those already assembled. Paud 

 Morrissey had designed to bring up his son 

 as a gentleman, had him sent for schoolin' to 

 Cork, and the lad was turning out everything 

 his father could hope for when he caught cold 

 from a wetting during a vacation, and lingered 

 through the various stages of consumption 

 until the end came at last. The boy's mother 

 is sobbing bitterly but not loudly; in fact, 

 nothing can be more decorous and impressive 

 than this house of death, until, with a sudden 

 unexpected cry, the keener runs over to the 



