Small Beauties Read Online Free PDF

On the night Darcy O’Hara was born, her father danced a jig in the firelight of their small cottage. It was what fathers did long ago, in Ireland, in the cottages of Derry Lane, in the townland of Pobble O’Keefe.

    “The babe has a gift, ’tis plain to see,” Granny O’Hara whispered, her blue eyes twinkling. Granny herself had “second sight,” which let her peek into the future.
    The six O’Hara boys gathered round their new sister.
    “One day this child shall hold the very heart of our family in the palm of her hand,” Granny predicted.
    So they named the infant Darcy Heart O’Hara.

    Now children were as plentiful in Pobble O’Keefe as the chickens that roosted in the thatched roofs up and down Derry Lane. But Darcy was different. She was a noticer. She stopped to notice small beauties wherever she went.
    “Darcy Heart O’Hara, how many times must you be told to milk the cow?” Granny would call from the half door. “Whatever are you doing while our Kathleen is waitin’ so patient?”

    “ ’Tis a grand sight I see, Granny,” Darcy would answer, pointing to a dew-covered spiderweb across her bucket’s rim.
    “It won’t be a grand sight you’ll be seeing if your father hasn’t milk for his tea,” Granny snapped.

    “Darcy Heart O’Hara!” her mother would call up to the roof. “I sent you up to gather eggs ages ago. What keeps you, girl?”
    “I’m on my way, Mam,” Darcy was quick to call down. “I just stopped to watch the cloud castles,” she said, pointing to the sky.

    “Clouds, is it?” her mother would fume. “I can’t be using clouds to barter with in the market. Gather up those eggs and hurry down!”

    Now the O’Haras, like many of their neighbors, knew more about courage than coin. For in Pobble O’Keefe, in the year 1845, money was as rare as a whortleberry in December.
    Darcy’s dress had neither collar nor pocket. But as poor as she was, Darcy often felt rich with the many beauties she noticed. And when she could, she liked to carry the smallest ones home in the hem of her skirt.
    She’d carefully pull a few stitches loose and tuck in a flower,

    a pebble,

    or a found butterfly’s wing.

    In the evenings, with kittens curled in laps, dogs flopped over feet, and piglets poking about, the O’Haras would gather at the hearth.
    There they listened to stories, the kind only Granddad could spin.
    With a low, hushy whisper, he’d begin, “Long ago, on our fair Isle of Erin . . .” In the glow of the peat fire, Darcy noticed how Granddad’s voice would rise and fall as he told of brave heroes on white steeds and moonlit glens filled with little folk and fairy queens.

    The children would gasp and gape and the piglets would grunt in all the right places. All together, at the hearth, they were happy, and Darcy noticed.

    But such happiness was not to last. For the summer brought nothing but “soft weather,” as Granny called the rain. And when the sun finally did come out, Darcy walked with her father over the soggy fields to inspect their crop of potatoes. The lush green leaves had curled and turned black. The potatoes had all gone rotten! It was the same in every field, in every county, all over Ireland.

    “How shall we pay the rent?” Darcy’s mother cried. “And what shall we feed the children?”
    “We’ll do the only thing we can,” Darcy’s father answered. “We’ll plant more potatoes and pray our luck changes. Everyone shall help with the planting.

    “Darcy Heart O’Hara, what in heaven’s name are you doing dawdling in that empty row?” her brother Sean scolded.
    “I was just noticing a magpie flying low over the buttercups,” Darcy told him as she pointed to the edge of the field. “See how his black feathers shine next to their shimmering gold.”
    “Gold, is it?” her brother cried. “Why can’t you ever see what the rest of us see? If you did, you’d notice that there’s no gold here, just a bunch of useless blossoms. Stop