There was a fascination about the winter evenings in that cottage.  Scarcely a night passed that did not see some man or woman sitting in the corner waiting for shoes.  A candlestick about three feet high, in which burned a large tallow candle, was set in front of my father.  My mother was the only one in the house who could read, and she used to read aloud from a story paper called The Weekly Budget.  We were never interested in the news.  The outside world was shut off from us, and the news consisted of whatever was brought by word of mouth by the folks who had their shoes cobbled; that was interesting.  In those long winter evenings, I sat in the corner among the shoes and lasts.  On scraps of leather I used to imitate writing, and often I would quietly steal up to my mother and show her these scratchings, and ask her whether they meant anything or not.  I thought somehow by accident I would surely get something.  My mother merely shook her head and smiled.  She taught me many letters of the alphabet, but it took me years to string them together.

My mother had acquired a taste, indeed, it was a craving, for strong drink; and, even from the very small earnings of my father, managed to satisfy it in a small measure, every day, except Sunday.  On Sunday there was a change.  The cobbler’s bench was cleared away, and my mother’s beautiful face was surrounded with a halo of spotless, frilled linen.

My father’s Sunday mornings were spent in giving the thrush an outing and in cleaning his cage.  Neither my father nor mother made any pretensions to religion; but they were strict Sabbatarians.  My father never consciously swore, but, within even the limitations of his small vocabulary, he was unfortunate in his selection of phrases.  I bounced into the alley one Sunday morning, whistling a Moody and Sankey hymn.

“Shut up yer mouth!” said my father.

“It’s a hymn tune,” I replied.

“I don’t care a damn,” replied my father.  “It’s the Lord’s day, and if I hear you whistlin’ in it I’ll whale the hell out o’ ye!”

That was his philosophy, and he lived it.  Saturday nights when the town clock struck the hour of midnight, he removed his leather apron, pushed his bench back in the corner, and the work of the week was over—­and if any one was waiting for his shoes, so much the worse for him.  He would wait until the midnight clock struck twelve the next night or take them as they were.

The first tragedy in my life was the death of a pet pigeon.  I grieved for days over its disappearance; but one Sunday morning the secret slipped out.  Around that neighbourhood there was a custom among the very poor of exchanging samples of their Sunday broth.  Three or four samples came to our cottage every Sunday morning.  We had meat once a week, and then it was either the hoofs or part of the head of a cow, or the same parts of a sheep or a calf.  On this particular occasion, I knew that there was something in our broth that was unusual, and I did not rest until I learned the truth.  They had grown tired of nettle broth, and made a change on the pigeon.