“An impatient fellow we have here, ain’t we?” spat the old Irishman to his kin.
“Aye, that be MacDanaugh’ wee lad. He ha’ a temper on him, too.”
“What e’er happen to he ‘ma?”
“Ahh she ran away with the townsie to the forest. He say they wer’ gonn’ liv off di land, an’ mak’ a fine wi bit o’ it, too, but fer her sister the shrew chasin’ him away frum her.”
“Oh aye, poor ‘lil Betsy Ross, she a wee smacker of a thing.”
“Ye, well, she’ll have her full o’ sweets with that Japanese lord they marryin’ her uff to.”
The two old men sat, wooden carved pipes in hands, puffing as they looked into the shade cast on their land by the old forest edging it. It was creeping nearer now, every day inching further and further into the fields.
The building, the bairn off the wee cairn there from their ancestors, marked the edge of the embankment where the land turned rocky as it headed toward the Sea. The boats their ancestors carried out into the cold November streams and frigid freezing airs till May were rotting slowly, then drying, then rotting slowly again, pulled up upon the shore and cast aside, along with most of their history as the English lit up the shores, chasing them from their food source, while pillaging their livestock, and plundering and looting their fields and their women.
It was no wonder most had fled to the colonies, and later the United States. As grand addiesment to the population though they were, some chose to remain, or didn’t have a choice in the matter. Most could barely scrape together enough whearn from the bottom of their sacks to make a loaf of bread for the week, and some had little ones to care for. Not everyone could sell themselves off as the temporary slaves they knew they already were to the British crown.
