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.