Plainfield High School - Milestone Yearbook (Plainfield, NJ)

Page 8 text:

4 THE ORACLE. kept the rooms across the hall from Mrs. Brophy, where he had brought his girl bride, and after her death, his neighbor had taken care of the rooms and attended to the baby, besides giving Tom his meals, for a very modest sum. Now that Katie was growing older, he received advice that it was his duty to marry again, and give the child a mother. Old Mike voiced public opinion, when he said, “Yez ought to have a woman of ver own, Tom; the little gal needs a mother, and ‘tis yer duty by her,” Tom as ustial only smiled, “We've got along so far. I guess we can get along a few years more, and then Katie will be old enough to kape house fer her dad in foine style, eh kiddie?” His little daughter threw her arms around his brawny neck with a burst of affection. Shaking her tousled head violently at old Mike, she told him to, “Go long wid yer, Mike Conlin, I don’t like yer. I know what yer want, yer want father to marry Rosy Murphy; but he won’t, he won’t!” and she screamed and stamped her foot with each word. “Oh, what a little tiger cat ye are, Katie; but don’t yer worry, ye’ll make a foine housekaper fer yer father. Then some day ye'll git mar- ried and leave poor old daddy out in the cold—” “I won't! I won’t!” bursting into tears, “And I hate yer, Mike Conlin, I do!” “There, there, never mind, me candy kid, you and father will allus stick together,” and he smoothed the tangled curls with his rough hand. “Now quit yer foolin’, Mike, and don’t worrit the child, just see how she trimbles.” Bs k 2 2 x Katie was a big girl of nine now, and still the queen of her father’s heart. Every day she went to school, and made rapid progress, for had not father promised, that when she had graduated from the grammar school, she should keep house for him. Sunday afternoons when it was pleasant weather, they could be seen either on a bench in the park listen- ing to the music, or on a Coney Island boat. Sometimes he took her down to the great bridge which was building, and pointed out where, high in the air, he worked driving rivets. Katie would shudder and cling closer to his hand, as her eyes grew big with terror. “Oh, daddy, ain’t yer afeared away up there?” “No, not afeared, allanna, only just a bit lonesome.” “But if yer should fall?” and a’ queer catch came in her voice.

Page 7 text:

SHH SORWACIE, 3 milk spurted out of the feeding bottle, he was trying to manipulate with the other. The baby squalled and kicked at the unexpected drenching. “°Tis not a success ye are as a nurse, I’m afeared,” continued old Mike Conlin, as he pressed the tobacco down in his unlighted pipe, and con- tentedly sucked on the mouthpiece. ‘“What’s that, child?” he asked, as his little daughter, Maggie, who had been leaning against him watching Tom’s efforts in the feeding line, whispered in his ear, “Can yer hold the babby? Why, I’m sure yer can, if Tom will let yer. Here, let Maggie try her hand.” Tom passed the baby over with an anxious look, and a, “Be careful of her back, Maggie.” “The little nine-year-old girl hugged the baby close, and crooned a soft Irish lullaby. As she walked up and down the room, she slipped into the tiny hand part of a stick of peppermint candy, she had been chewing. Instinct carried the candy to the baby mouth, the fretful wailing gradually ceased, and Katie slept. Tom, sitting tilted back in his chair, had been an awestruck observer, and, in a whisper asked Maggie how she had man- aged to subdue his little daughter so easily. “Sure, I gave her me candy. All babbies like candy.” “Yes, but ’tis bad fer such a little one.” “Nonsense, twill warm her in’ards, and stop the pain. ‘Tis only peppermint, and good fer colic,’ and old Mike took a match from his pocket, lit it carefully, heaved a deep sigh, and blew it out regretfully, for Tom would not permit smoking where the baby was. “°Tis bad fer the little one to breathe in,’ he always answered when Mike Conlin expostulated, “Can’t yer wait, man, until yer out in the air, or in yer own home?” and Mike would sigh and solace himself as best he could with his unlit pipe. After that, Tom always kept a supply of peppermint candy on hand, and many a night’s good sleep he owed to its effect on Katie, for it was hard to work all day, and wake all night. Mrs. Brophy often told him, he would ruin the child’s stomach, and vaguely hinted at worms; but Katie throve. Every night Tom Kavanagh tucked her, and a stick of candy into the cot bed, before he went out for his chat, and glass of beer with his cronies at the corner saloon. As Katie grew older, and began to play on the streets, kind hearted Mrs. Brophy found it an almost impossible task to keep an eye on the active child, for she had her own family to look after. Tom had always

Page 9 text:

THE ORACLE. 5 “Ball! Sure;isn't: the river under. me like a big feather bed!” Many nights in her dreams the child saw the black, rushing river, and the slender cables of the huge bridge above. A nameless horror would envelope her, until she awoke shaking with ague. Then the sound of her father’s breathing, in the bed beside her own, would quiet her excited nerves; she would put out her hand, touch him gently and fall asleep again with his hand held closely in hers. One day Katie was hurrying home in a joyous mood, her school books under her arm, her monthly report card grasped tightly in one hand. ‘There was a general understanding between Katie and her father that if her average did not fall below eighty percent, she should be rewarded, and that reward was usually a pound box of candies, selected by herself. Today meant the fruition of a pleasure, she had worked har d to procure. Her mark was ninety for the month, and she knew how pleased her father would be, so she ran happily along, occasionally skipping a few steps, or singing. As she neared home, she saw a group of neighbors congregated about the doorway listening intently to a big, ruddy faced man, who was talking to Mrs. Brophy. Katie knew the man, Jerry Donnavan, a friend of her father’s, and, also a worker on the bridge. It seems, in some way not understood by the child, that as she neared them, the sun grew pale, and dark shadows fell across the house front, and the faces of those gath ered there. A fear began to rise within her heart. Jerry Donnavan saw her coming, and instead of calling out a word of welcome as usual, he turned abruptly in the opposite direction. Mrs. Brophy threw her apron over her head, groaned and rocked herself back and forth. Thoroughly frightened, Katie burst through the group, as she did so murmurs of— “Poor child, ’tis glad I am, I haven’t the tellin’,” fell upon her ears. “What is it?’ she asked. No answer. “Whattismte |) Whatthas happened?’ The pitying glances of the neighbors seemed to pierce her heart, as she glanced wildly around. Then like an overwhelming flood, came the true significance of those looks. “Father!” she gasped. “Something has happened to father!’ A sharp bitter wail rose from the women in the crowd, no need to ask more. Katie knew that sound, the Irish keen. Her sight failed, her breath came in great sobbing waves. “Father, father! Where are yer, father!” shudderingly, she threw up her arms with one heart rending cry, staggered and fell.