Central High School - Cog N Pen Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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His Irish Mary Bv Helen Klepackv old Veteran's Home, snuggling unpreten- The tiously behind the whitewashed fence, and skirted on both sides by parallel rows of cabbages, beans, let- and such vegetables as its inmates chose to cultivate, sheltered old Josh M'Gill pressible temper for twenty years. He had participated in the struggle of a great nation itself. When the fire smoldering, not yet burst into flames. the patriotic lad, freshly landed in Irish dudeens from his native Lisconne! bogs, enthusiastically began polishing his rusty firearms, and when the inevitable came to pass. shouldered his way into the conflagration. On this particular day as he reclined on the old dilapidated garden bench, his sparse white hair was Musingly. he sucked tuce, and his irre- against was merely wafted by a frolicksome breeze. an ancient briar-root pipe (a wedding present from a Scotch crony) whose heavy smoke contrasted with the clear infinity above. Не was reminiscing, living a mightier battle, the battle of Life. Monotony and again in the trying sixties. But he was a veteran of unkindness m arred every page in that stormy Book. ‘There was one beacon, one joy. to which his heart warmed. and overflowed with gratitude; his Mary. his Irish. Mary. Four sons he had, 'divils he called them (ехсері- ing Pat, who had married his Irish Mary). Yes, and there was Kate whom he had carried pig-a-back. when she was knee-high to a grasshopper. But now. she was a lady. too fine a lady. in fact. to visit her old pa. And grandchildren! bony Laboriously ke endeavored to count them on his fingers. “Thirteen,” he ejaculated at last, as if addressing the gray smoke flurried Жа, thirteen— little like paps and mu'hers (excepting Mary's giils: they were sweel, benevoient darlints. like their mother). How rich was he in children. vet how miserably poor in filial Divils, he shifting his which about him. siree, thirteen rapscallions, jist their sputtered between his clenched trembling love! stumps. Then. gaze to his hands which were languidly tearing asunder a fallen maple leaf. he seemingly addressed those withered Bedad, me own dater nivei есе her оша pap! She sez I be cranky. Wal, mebbe I do be a bit so, but, och, wot wi’ th’ rheumatiz got hould o' me. an' me say But Mary. me darlint. she dunnot think me conthrary, she's wonerful. And this moment he peered through the enveloping smoke. that very nearly resembled a London fog. and extremities. comes to faible.

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aw Matt Rafferty, his senior by ten years, limping wards him. He cleared the bench of a basket of tuts and sweet meats which Mary had just brought him. and motioned Matt to the vacated space. l'ubbe отеп’ Е “Ye gomeral, who «уе think brung it, President sure, began Matt, Mary's brung ye (this with a furtive glance at the basket). Coolidge?” “Wal, no, Josh, I was on'y sort o commentin’. ” “ rrah now, why don't ye git down ter brass tacks ın say уе wan some?” “Wal, mebbe, I 'udn't mind so much, Josh.” After a great deal of fumbling and mumbling, and whatnot, Josh produced a box of mints and pair of oranges from the depths of the basket. For some time the two cronies silently sat munch- ing the delectables, with now and then a resounding smack, when Matt resumed the conversation. “Weren't thet yer daier, Kate, I see here yes- uddy? Not if it were?” “Why, nothin’, seein’ as of coorse; I was jist sort о” com- mentin', she's stranger like in these here parts. Yahh. she do be a stranger till she needs money.” “I spect she didn't git wot she come fer, harin’ th’ way she slammed thet there door, whan she wint awa’. Begob, man, d'ye think I be crazy giving thet aood-fer-nothin' five hundred dollars?” “Wal, no, I was jist sort о commentin'. “Wunst, las’ Aperl, she come snivillin” ter her ould fayther, an' sez, 'Pappy. 1 needs money, five hundred dollars, оп me mortgage, er me property'll be furclosed.” Och, ап wi'out thinkin’ twyst, I gives her five hundred dollars, an not а cint less. Th’ nix’ month I wint fer to visit her, an’ begorrah, if she didn't ha’ a bran’ new саг, a yaller one. So thet was th’ mortgage! Bad cess to her! Now, Matt, ain't thet thrason, I'm axin’ ye?” “Och. sich divilskins do be yer childher, tis scan- deelious ! [ sted wid thim thet night, an slep' on th’ flure Twas damp thet Aperl, inards. (Here he was wi one blanket, mind уе. an' I took could in me shaken with a convulsion of coughing. which ceased only after Matt had clouted him on the back a num- of times.) “Its worser I'm gittin’ ivery minyut. . Whoa there, Matt! І jist sed lp yournself to thim mints. D'ye think me darlint brung thim fer ye? Embarrassed at his gluttony, Ман desisted, and feebly whistled an Irish ditty. The next day, and the next, the rickety old bench No gray smoke ascended heavenward Old to quote the old vet was vacant. from the bowl of the ancient briar-root pipe. Josh was ili, exactly. sick as а dorg.” Іп vain the physicians sought to coax old Josh to take the prescribed medicines, but he would brush them aside with contempt. Bah. thet's poison! Take me to me Irish Mary, an’ if I be cured me Mary'll do it, or else I'll die be me darlint.”” There was no alternative, and an immediate re- moval was arranged. Once in his son's home, the old man gave no further thought to his other ungrateful children. Com- plete happiness was his. Not a care or a want passed unheeded. His Irish Mary, ever loving and mindful, to his Her bulky form hovered over him from sun to sun, like a ministering angel, and her broad, genial smile, challenged the radiance of the morning sun, as she greeted him with a Good mornin', fayther, how be yer rheumatiz tday?” or Did thet linyeement Biddy brung ye aise th’ pain in yer fut whativer?”” Oft-times, in a delirium, he would suddenly start and stare around the room in bewilderment, but a re- assuring word or sign from Mary eradicated every doubt and vexation from his fast failing mind, and he would resume smoking his pipe with the content- ment of an infant. When Mary would anxiously ask if there w as anything he desired, he invariably answered, ''Whisht, honey, whisht, ye've nay raison tubbe onaisy “bout те.” “Магу.” he said feebly one day, as his darlint was rubbing his foot with some “‘yaller linyeement,”” whan I can't smoke this here ould pipe, wot Мас give me, Mary, I tell ye I'm a gonner.” The time did arrive when the briar-root pipe was administered every wish.