Children of the Dead End Quotes

“There were so many tons of earth to be lifted and thrown somewhere else; we lifted them and threw them somewhere else: so many cubic yards of iron-hard rocks to be blasted and carried away; we blasted and carried them away, but never asked questions and never knew what results we were labouring to bring about. We turned the Highlands into a cinder-heap, and were as wise at the beginning as the end of the task. Only when we completed the job, and returned to the town, did we learn from the newspapers that we had been employed on the construction of the biggest aluminium factory in the kingdom.”
― Patrick MacGill, Children of the Dead End

“The cold tang of the dawn was already in the air and the smell of the earth was keen in our nostrils, when Moleskin Joe and I breasted the steep shoulder of a hill together, and saw the outer line of derricks standing gaunt against the bald cliffs of Kinlochleven. From the crest of the rise we could see the lilac grey vesture of the twilight unfold itself from off the naked peaks that stood out boldly in the ghostly air like carved gargoyles of some mammoth sculpture. A sense of strange remoteness troubled the mind, and in the half-light the far distances seemed vague and unearthly, and we felt like two atoms frozen into a sea of silence amidst the splendour of complete isolation. A long way off a line of hills stood up, high as the winds, and over their storm-scarred ribs we saw or fancied we saw the milky white torrents falling. We could not hear the sound of falling waters; and white frothy torrents were the ghost streams.

The mood or spell was one of a moment. A derrick near at hand clawed out a lean arm, and lifted a bucket of red muck into the air, then turned noisily on its pivot, and was relieved of its burden. The sun burst out suddenly like an opening rose, and the garments of the day were thrown across the world. One rude cabin sent up a grey spiral of smoke into the air, then another and another. We sat on a rock, lit our pipes, and gazed on the Mecca of our hopes.”
― Patrick MacGill, Children of the Dead End

“Only that morning coming up the Clyde, when Norah and I looked across the water to a country new to both of us, my mind was full of dreams of the future. But the rosy-tinted boyish dreams of morning were shattered before the fall of night. Maybe the old man who lay by the dung-heap came to Scotland with dreams like mine. Now the spirit was crushed out of him; he was broken on the wheel of life, and he had neither the courage to rob, sin, or die. He could only beg his bit and apologise for begging. The first day in Scotland disgusted me, made me sick of life, and if it were not that Norah Ryan was in the squad I would go back to Jim MaCrossan's farm again.”
― Patrick MacGill, Children of the Dead End

“I, to Bennet, represented five pounds ten shillings' worth of goods bought at the market-place, and the buyer wanted, as a business man, to have his money's worth. The man was, of course, within his rights; everybody wants the worth of their money, and who was I, a boy bought for less than a spavined horse, to rail against the little sorrows which Destiny imposed upon me? I was only an article of exchange, something which represented so much amidst the implements and beasts of the farm; but having a hear and a soul I felt the position acutely.”
― Patrick MacGill, Children of the Dead End

“Once a year, on St. Bride's Eve, my father came home from his day's work, carrying a load of green rushes on his shoulders. At the door he would stand for a moment with his feet on the threshold and say these words:
"Saint Bride sends her blessings to all within. Give her welcome."

Inside my mother would answer, "Welcome she is," and at these words my father would loosen the shoulder-knot and throw his burden on the floor. Then he made crosses from the rushes, wonderful crosses they were. It was said that my father was the best at that kind of work in all the countryside. When made, they were placed in various parts of the house and farm. They were hung up in our home, over the lintel of the door, the picture of the Holy Family, the beds, the potato pile and the fireplace. One was placed over the spring well, one in the pigsty, and one over the roof-tree of the byre. By doing this the blessing of Saint Bride remained in the house for the whole of the following year.”
― Patrick MacGill, Children of the Dead End