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Updated: May 13, 2025
"But you, Davy," she warned, putting an arm about my waist, in sincere affection, "you better look out." "I isn't afeared." "You better look out!" "Oh, Mary," I faltered, "I I isn't much afeared." "You better look out!" "Leave us go home!" I begged. "The Lard'll ship you there an you don't look out. He've no mercy on little lads." "Oh, leave us go home!" "He'll be cotchin' you!"
The Lard's my doctor. Keep your sawl clean, an' the Lard'll watch your body. 'E's said as much. 'E knaws we'm poor trashy worms an' even a breath o' foul air'll take our lives onless 'E be by to filter it. Faith's the awnly medicine worth usin'." Joan remembered her morning bath and felt comforted by this last reflection. Had she not already found the magic result?
"Not love!" I complained. "Davy," she said, not deigning to answer me, "Davy," she repeated, her voice again rising splendidly triumphant, "I isn't goin' t' hell! For I've looked in an' got away. The Lard'll never send me, now. Never!" "I'm glad, Mary." "I'm not a goat," she boasted. "'Twas all a mistake. I'm a sheep. That's what I is!" "I'm wonderful glad."
Too much of it would incapacitate him. He had lived forty-four years without a cod trap, and he had not starved, and he could finish his days without one. "The Lard'll take care of us," Skipper Tom often said when they were in a tight pinch, but he always added, "if we does our best to make the best of things and look after ourselves and the things the Lard gives us to do with.
Th' Lard'll be findin' a way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th' spring, if that be His way o' curin she I knows He will. Th' Lard always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid. He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out walkin' He never would do that.
When Bob realized the extent of the wicked slaughter he was disgusted with himself for having taken part in it. "'Twas wicked t' kill so many of un when we're not needin' un, an' I hopes th' Lard'll forgive me for helpin'," he said contritely.
He swept the round-house, coupled the sacks, received grist from the grist-bringers, and took payment for the grinding in money or in kind, according to custom. The old women who toddled in with their bags of gleaned corn looked very kindly on him, and would say, "Thee be a good bwoy, sartinly, Jan, and the Lard'll reward thee."
A damned soul, looking up with wild eyes into his, was all he saw the very off scouring and filth of human nature hell tinder, to touch which in kindness was to risk his own salvation. "Gaw, gaw! Else the Lard'll make me His weapon. He's whisperin' He's whisperin'!" There was something horribly akin to genuine madness in the frenzy of this utterance. Mrs.
"Aye, 'tis Sunday and 'tis against my principles to fish on the Sabbath day. I never did before, but 'tis to save our cod trap now. The lads and I'll not fish. We'll just haul the trap." "The Lard'll forgive that, whatever," agreed his wife. Skipper Tom went out when he had eaten, but it was not long until he returned. "I'm not goin' to haul the trap today," he said quietly and decisively.
"Th' Lard'll be showin' th' way when th' right time comes an' I'll try t' bide content till then." But there was little in the surroundings to warrant Bob's faith.
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