Watson, instigated by Danny, had looked at the
turkeys in the butcher shop that morning, asked the price
and came away sorrowful. Even Danny understood that a
turkey was not to be thought of. They compromised on a
pot-roast because it makes so much gravy, and with this
and the prospect of potatoes and turnips and prune-pie,
the family had to be content.
On the day that Pearlie was expected home, Mrs. Watson
and Mary were busy preparing the evening meal, although
it was still quite early in the afternoon. Wee Danny
stood on a syrup keg in front of the window, determined
to be the first to see Pearlie.
Mrs. Watson was peeling the potatoes and singing. Mrs.
Watson sang because her heart was glad, for was not
Pearlie coming home. She never allowed her singing to
interfere with more urgent duties; the singing could
always wait, and she never forgot just where she had left
it, but would come back and pick up at the exact place
she had discarded it.
"Sure ain't it great the way ma never drops a stitch in
her singin'," her eldest son Teddy had said admiringly
one day. "She can lave a note half turned up in the air,
and go off and lave it, and ye'd think she'd forgot
where she left it, but never a fear o' ma, two days afther
she'll rache up for it and bring it down and slip off
into the choon agin, nate as nate."
On this particular day Mrs. Watson sang because she
couldn't help it, for Pearlie was coming home--
From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strands,
she sang, as she peeled the potatoes--
Where Africa's sunny fount--
"Come, Mary alanna, and scour the knives, sure an' I
forgot them at noon to-day.
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