There_d
sped up still further.
"It bean't much," she said apologetically, the first time Driscol sat down to dinner.
He examined the food. Looked at from one angle, "bean't much" was certainly accurate. Salt pork and potatoes sauced with hog's lard—the staple in the diet of poor Americans. There'd be pudding for dessert, maybe.
For breakfast, as he'd had every morning since he'd arrived, there'd been porridge. Porridge every day—and that would be true if he stayed here for ten years.
For lunch, nothing more than bread smeared with apple butter.
But...
There was plenty of it. And if the fare itself got tedious, Driscol could always cheer himself up with philosophical ruminations.
As, indeed, he proceeded to do right then and there. "It suits me just fine, Mrs. McParland. The Sassenach sneer at us, you know, for being a nation of drunkards, tobacco spitters, and fat eaters."
"Do they really?"
"Oh, yes. I've read some of the newspaper accounts." He ladled some salt pork and potatoes onto his plate. "But I recall that they used to sneer at us for exactly the same thing in Ireland— and added, to the bargain, the sneer that we were too poor to afford much in the way of whiskey or tobacco or fat."
He ladled more salt pork and potatoes onto the plate.
"Here in America, on the other hand, we can afford plenty of it. So . . ." He ladled still more onto his plate. "This suits me just fine."
Mr. McParland grunted his agreement. He grunted instead of speaking, because his mouth was full. After he finished swallowing that first great bite, he added his own philosophical observations.
"And we bean't forced to listen to Church of England sermons about our sinful ways, neither."
Young Thomas spoke up. "There's Church of England people here, too, Pa."
His father sneered. "So? They don't swagger about giving orders, do they?"
"And they've even got a sense of shame," Driscol pointed out. "At least here they label their cowardly Anglican superstitions by the name of 'Episcopalianism.' Might I have some more tea, Mrs. McParland?"
"Why, of course, Sergeant." She refilled his cup from a kettle she brought over from the stove.
It was a large kettle, full of the strong and bitter tea that was more or less the recognized national drink of Americans.
"It bean't much," she said apologetically, the first time Driscol sat down to dinner.
He examined the food. Looked at from one angle, "bean't much" was certainly accurate. Salt pork and potatoes sauced with hog's lard—the staple in the diet of poor Americans. There'd be pudding for dessert, maybe.
For breakfast, as he'd had every morning since he'd arrived, there'd been porridge. Porridge every day—and that would be true if he stayed here for ten years.
For lunch, nothing more than bread smeared with apple butter.
But...
There was plenty of it. And if the fare itself got tedious, Driscol could always cheer himself up with philosophical ruminations.
As, indeed, he proceeded to do right then and there. "It suits me just fine, Mrs. McParland. The Sassenach sneer at us, you know, for being a nation of drunkards, tobacco spitters, and fat eaters."
"Do they really?"
"Oh, yes. I've read some of the newspaper accounts." He ladled some salt pork and potatoes onto his plate. "But I recall that they used to sneer at us for exactly the same thing in Ireland— and added, to the bargain, the sneer that we were too poor to afford much in the way of whiskey or tobacco or fat."
He ladled more salt pork and potatoes onto the plate.
"Here in America, on the other hand, we can afford plenty of it. So . . ." He ladled still more onto his plate. "This suits me just fine."
Mr. McParland grunted his agreement. He grunted instead of speaking, because his mouth was full. After he finished swallowing that first great bite, he added his own philosophical observations.
"And we bean't forced to listen to Church of England sermons about our sinful ways, neither."
Young Thomas spoke up. "There's Church of England people here, too, Pa."
His father sneered. "So? They don't swagger about giving orders, do they?"
"And they've even got a sense of shame," Driscol pointed out. "At least here they label their cowardly Anglican superstitions by the name of 'Episcopalianism.' Might I have some more tea, Mrs. McParland?"
"Why, of course, Sergeant." She refilled his cup from a kettle she brought over from the stove.
It was a large kettle, full of the strong and bitter tea that was more or less the recognized national drink of Americans.