Commerce High School - Commerce Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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when he recalls that ghosts have been seen stalking around the old ruins, and most of the villagers would go out of the way rather than pass the scene of Lennon’s murder after nightfall. It was dusk. In a small, three-room cot on the outskirts of Glen Carrig village sat sat Andy Doran, the cobbler, busily working on a pair of boots. Andy, as well as being a good cobbler, was also a fine story-teller. On all the traditions and superstitions about ghosts, farics and hidden pots of gold, in which the peasantry of that locality were firm believers, he was well posted. The young fellows of the village were in the habit of gathering around Andy’s cheerful hearth during the evening. They would watch him ply his trade, but what they enjoyed more than anything else was to listen to his entertaining yarns of which he seemed to have an unlimitd supply. “The boys are late tonight,’’ said Andy as, stepping his work for a minute, he lit his pipe with a piece of glowing peat. His words were addressed to his wife, Shela, who, looking up from her knitting, replied in a kind tone: “Why they’ve plinty of time yit; it’s only half after sivin.’’ “Shela, there is a story which I have been thinking of all day, and I think I’ll till it to the boys.” “Here they are, Andy!” exclaimed Shela. The door opened and in stepped Bill Mooney, the village blacksmith, with five companions. “God save all here,” said Bill. “God save ye kindly, Bill,” responded Andy, faithfully carrying out the Irish custom of salutation. After all were seated Andy said, “As I was jist saying to Shela, a story me grandfather tould me has been on me mind all day.” “Let’s hear it, blurted out Darby Redmond. “Shure,” says Andy, “me grandfather tould me a hundred times how old Pether Duff’s grandfather became suddenly rich. Pether's. grandfather claimed he got the money from an uncle who died in California; but me grandfather said he knew better, and that it was a pot of goold ould Pether’s grandfather dramed of at Tubbercurry graveyard and that when he got the money he pretinded that it kirn from America.” When Andy had concluded his tale, which told of goblins and hidden treasures, old Tim Hurley, the local postman, who had listened open-mounted, said, excitedly, “Be dad, Andy, I often thought there was a pot of gold hid somewhere in the ould graveyard above.” And he pointed mysteriously toward the French house and the adjoining graveyard. “Them’s me sintiments, too,” replied Andy, “and some of us will live to see it come thrue.” In Andy’s audience that night were Marshal, the butler. Tom Nolan, the coachman, and Ned Brady, a local character, commonly known as Tip, all of whom were employed at Glen Carrig House. On their way home, while 98

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Sunrise EARLY one fine morning, I was awakened by the twittering and chirping of birds in the apple trees near my windows. I dressed hurriedly, for I intended to take my dog, Jack, for a nice long walk before breakfast but I heard such a sudden commotion outside, that I looked out to see what was the matter. Eight noisy robins were trying to get possession of a poor little worm, but soon got tired of quarreling and each went to find food for himself. It was very interesting to watch them but when I looked up toward the east I forgot everything else, for I was looking upon one of the prettiest sights that I have ever seen. The eastern sky was full of beautiful clouds. Two large ones, in crimson and gold, were directly opposite me, and were unbounded by a multitude of small, gray ones. I thought they resembled two mountains and the sheep which graze in the valleys near them. The sun was just peeping up behind the mountains, and as I watched it ascend higher and higher, I thought how like our lives was the scene presented. We were once like the sheep, playing and enjoying ourselves. Then as we worked harder and became stronger, we became like small mountains, each trying to occupy a place, distinct from the rest. Then as we become more powerful, and gain in strength and wisdom, we, like the sun, are striving to reach our zeniths. Let us try to reach the highest point we can, for, as Lowell says, “Not failure but low aim is crime.” EMMA APPLEBY, 1912. “©len tarns ®rabeparb” IN the southeastern part of Ireland, in the valley of the river Slaney, lies the quaint little village of Glen Carrig. On the slope of an adjoining hill stands Glen Carrig House, the imposing residence of Colonel French. This house in early days had served as an abbey or monastery, but the members of the French family, into whose hands it had fallen, had eventually turned it into a fine dwelling place. An atmosphere half of awe and dread and half of romance mingled with superstition still slung to the house, and this was increased by the proximity of an old, ruined church which still adjoined the abbey-dwelling. About fifteen years prior to the time of our story, a man named James Lennon, while passing through the graveyard, had been murdered. His body was left under the old ivy-covered wall, where it was later discovered by a workman. The people of the neighborhood wisely nodded their heads over reports that Lennon’s ghost was often seen prowling around the old church ruins in the dim twilight. The graveyard, the old church and the ivy-covered wall, in the dim light of evening, makes one, even today, shudder and fear, 97

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talking about Andy’s story of the pots of gold, Tip suddenly exclaimed, “Let s play a joke on the ould man, boys.” “A fine scheme, Tip,” answered Marshall, “what shall it be? “Leave it to me, boys, and I’ll fix one up,” suggested Tip. “Very well, Tip,” they laughingly assented. By this time they had reached Glen Carrig House, and as it was very late, they retired for the night. A few days later, when Tip went down to the village for the mail, he called on the old cobbler. “Andy,” said he, “I had a quare drame last night. “And what might the drame be about?” asked Andy. “Well, I drimt that there was a pot of goold berrid at the foot of the ould whitethorn bush above in the graveyard, under the master’s garden wall,” whispered Tip. “Arrah musha, Tip, do you tell me so!” “It’s as thrue as I’m standin’ here, Andy.” Well,” said Andy, you’ve got to drame it thrice before it’ll come thrue. But for the love of heaven don’t mention it to man or mortial.” “All right,” said Tip, as he was going out of the door. A few days later Tip called again. “Be gob. Andy, I drimt it agin last night.” “You’re in luck, me man,” replied Andy, “but as I tould you before, hold your whist until we see will it come to you agin.” Tip didn’t show up again for ten days. One morning early he entered Andy’s cot all excitement. “I had her agin last night, Andy.” “You don’t say so. Tip,” responded Andy, his eyes nearly jumping out of their sockets. “Yis, Andy, but this time I drimt after I had dug down to the pot a horrible creature with two heads an’ about eight foot tall kim roaring and shaking a lot of chains that was fastened to him and fairly frightened the very soul out of me.” Andy jumped up, and seizing Tip’s hand, said, “Me boy, our fortune’s made, but, as I tould you before, don’t brathe it to anyone. Tomorrow night, please God, we’ll git that pot of goold if the divil himself kirns howlin’ around with all the chains in the country fastened to him. Meet me tomorrow night at the graveyard, about eleven o’clock and bring along a good sharp pick and a strong spade.” In the meantime, Andy arranged with Marshal and Nolan that Marshal was to take some chains up into an old apple tree that hung over the garden wall near the old whitethorn bush. When Tip and the cobbler were well along with the digging, he was to yell and rattle the chains. Tip was to drop his spade and run for his life, while Nolan and two or three others were to be at the graveyard gate to yell when the cobbler came running out and give him a double scare. 99