Seven Hills High School - Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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stopped, brushed the sweat from his Horid face and gazed at the sprawling old house on its green hill. Its quiet strength must have awakened to the mind of the man many of the bitter stories of lrelandls numerous woes. To him it suggested all the incidents that comprised lreland's long and tur- bulent existence. Things that would never be tales to him, but always .a history of his country written in the blood of his fathers. Suddenly he looked old and bitter. Drawing himself up he toiled on up the uneven path, cursing the English with a tired vehemence under his breath. Young Robert Farquharson coming down the same path, turned on his horse for the last time, and resolutely settled down in the saddle. The peasant greeted the young master and thought irreverently how young he looked to enough for the likes of him, so why should the gentry be after leaving it? Strange to say, the same thought was running through the head of the young- est Farquharson, as he and the horse moved with an easy rhythm down the familiar path. A PART II The evening quiet was suddenly broken by the dull thuds of an approach- ing horse. A melee of bays went up from a pack of welcoming hounds who were stationed on the long verandahs. And up the long avenue of dark old trees a man came, urging his weary horse into a final burst of speed. As he slid down stiHiy from the saddle, he noted for the first time, the house at which he had arrived. His mud-bespattered, weary face lit up with an in- credulous smile and he hastened his steps toward the open door from which lights, voices and the smell of venison issued. To the homesick Southerner, this white plantation house in the 1806 wilds of the North, seemed a gift from God, raised for his special benefit. As he stepped from a pool of light, which lay on the flagged porch, he seemed instantly absorbed by the scene which lay beyond. In the enormous cold hall he hesitated, he had abruptly come face to face with the Master of the house. The man stood with his hat in his hand and addressed the formidable member of the family. '6Pardon me, but I'd like to inquire the way to the nearest innf, Robert Farquharson, now a man forty or thereabout, looked at him with calm surprise. Turning toward the dining hall he called out, 6'Make a place for the stranger. Sir, he added, Hthere are no inns in this part of the countryf' Thanking him profusely, the Southerner made his way to the seat assigned Wdtfone, 193 9 l55l

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4'You know ever since father died and Nigel became head of the house, I knew l had to gofi 4'And now the time has come, you feel you can,t,7' said the quiet voice, putting into words the source of all his misery. Looking at her with a queer sense of shame, Robert answered in a low voice. '6Yes, that is it, somehow my whole life is wrapped up in Windy Hill, in Ireland. I seem to have just realized that all the things I know are connected with itf, An even voice from the dusk beyond the firelight, prompted him with the very words his reason had so often spoken to him. uOthers have done itfi Losing her calm untroubled manner, his mother suddenly became intense. Leaning toward him she spoke with fierceness. Hlreland's decadent, old, our family, others, all around us are people who are leaving, people who have been here longer than we. You go to this new country and make your- self another Windy Hill. Carry our name and traditions into a new land, and when you've settled I'll come and help you live, for I love you best of all my sonsf' The last delivered with a sudden departure from her fierce manner, with a gentleness seldom displayed to her sons, silenced and de- lighted the young man. He could only look at her with joy in his eyes. Finally he ventured, uBut what of the others and our home here?,, His mother smiled ruefully and said. 4'Our house won't stand long now. Since your father died, I've known that, your brothers even now are begin- ning to split up. But you are my son, you've my temperament, hot headed and intolerant of discipline. You could never spend your life here, ruled by a brother. As you grew older you would always blame me for not mak- ing you go. America is drawing men such as you from all over the world, adventurous, enterprising men who are seizing the opportunities that such a wild, free land has to off er and making themselves rich. You will be the one to carry the honor of the family into foreign places. Do you see now what you can be? Will you go?', She had made him at last come face to face with the decision he must make, and slowly, but surely she was drawing from him the answer that they both knew to be the best. He knew that he had to say yes. He knew how hard it would be. Perhaps it would prove too hard, but he stood up smil- ing, and pulling his mother to her feet he said, HI'll go and be a success, but you,re coming to help me live and make a new Windy Hillf' With perfect understanding his mother smiled up at him, yet she knew the agony of feeling he was going through and was full of pity. A peasant toiled up the steep road which led to Windy Hill, panting he W mm, 193 9 l54l

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to him, and subsided behind the piles of food heaped upon his plate. The group in the dining hall impressed the stranger as one that was composed of strong and unusual personalities. They surrounded the long heavy table, loaded with food and massive silver, all working with serious intent on the defenseless food before them. His host bowed his head over the meat, of which his capable white teeth made short work. He seldom spoke, but restless hazel eyes moved rapidly from person to person under heavy black arches missing little in their roving journey. At the foot of the long board, sat the matriarch of the house and her tiny grandson and his mother. The old lady was draped in a gay plaid shawl, her erect head was covered with a thatch of wiry gray hair, which in its wayward arrogance suggested the owner's own temperament. Although she dominated the conversation her glance ever rested on her son. Roxana, nineteen and determined, sat by her side and bided her time. Here again were the Farquharsons, as seen through the eyes of a casual observer. Somewhat far removed from Ireland, but eating and drinking with their accustomed enthusiasm and heartily enjoying life. Next morning, coming down the sunlit stairway, the stranger, refreshed by his good nightis sleep, wandered out on the verandah. As he passed through its white columns, he saw a young girl leading carefully over the flags, the staggering baby he had seen the night before. As she looked up and saw him, he realized that it was his host,s young wife. Yet how differ- ent was this laughing, impish, young girl, from the quiet, handsome woman who had been seated next to him on the night before. As the two fell into an easy conversation, he noted with growing amaze- ment how vivacious and charming this versatile young lady could be. But they both turned simultaneously as a light step was heard behind them. Standing with erect poise in the doorway stood Madam Farquharson. She threw back her head, sniffed the cool air and with a flashing smile turned toward the two at the end of the porch. 'GSO you,ve been admiring my grandsonf, The Southerner, looking sidewise at the strong little black haired child and the suddenly aloof Roxana, felt that a tactful compliment was in order. With the easy grace of the South, he replied. uHe,s a fine strong boy, Madam, the image of his father. Both women looked at him, new found appraisal in their eyes, and the discomfited guest felt immeasurably relieved. HAye, he's the image of his father and his father before him. Come to Grannie, bairnief' W mow, 193 Q l56l