I no longer retired to bed when the labours of the
day were over. I sat up, and wrote by the light of a strange sort
of candles, that Jenny called "sluts," and which the old woman
manufactured out of pieces of old rags, twisted together and dipped
in pork lard, and stuck in a bottle. They did not give a bad light,
but it took a great many of them to last me for a few hours.
The faithful old creature regarded my writings with a jealous eye.
"An', shure, it's killin' yerself that you are intirely. You were
thin enough before you took to the pen; scribblin' an' scrabblin'
when you should be in bed an' asleep. What good will it be to the
childhren, dear heart! If you die afore your time, by wastin' your
strength afther that fashion?"
Jenny never could conceive the use of books. "Sure, we can live and
die widout them. It's only a waste of time botherin' your brains wid
the like of them; but, thanks goodness! the lard will soon be all
done, an' thin we shall hear you spakin' again, instead of sittin'
there doubled up all night, desthroying your eyes wid porin' over
the dirthy writin'."
As the sugar-making season drew near, Jenny conceived the bold
thought of making a good lump of sugar, that the "childher" might
have something to "ate" with their bread during the summer.
