Note 11 — Chapter IV · THE SONG-BIRD'S NEST.

My son, hearken to thy aged grandsire. Thou wert born but yesterday, and I am nearing the gate of death. Fly, for ever fly, this ungrateful soil that refuses thee life. On yonder ship, where the crowd embark, thou goest to seek the United States, those climates in the bosom of plenty, where twenty united peoples live happily together. Fear not the storms of the Atlantic; seek America; there thy lot will be sweeter. At the dawn of day thou hast commenced thy work under the gray sky in the bleak winters. I have seen thy strength and courage worn out tilling the fields of some duke and peer, whose steps have never trodden his domain; far from Ireland he travels in state. Unfortunate, the dearth is near. Quit for ever this sojourn of misery. In cultivating the fertile savannahs, preserve thy faith if thou wouldst prosper: make thy adieus to our barren furrows; we must part. Take this silver, the fruit of long sacrifices, a crust of bread is enough for me; the sea is fair, the winds blow soft; go, my child—thy grandsire blesses thee!