Seven Hills High School - Yearbook (Cincinnati, OH)

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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

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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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The baby looking cautiously at the two women, suddenly made a dive for the booted leg of the man. The women laughed as the baby examined the shining spurs of his new found friend. They both saw him, not as the child, but the grown man, Robert II, carrying on the tradition of the house. The two women in time would be drawn together and merge their individual energies into one force, but until then, the dominant old mother felt that she alone was responsible for this new Windy Hill. LYoN BADHAM, 194-2 HIGH SCHOOL PRIZE ESSAY The Grandson of Abraham Lincoln One lazy afternoon last fall, as I was rummaging about the attic in search of some old dog pedigrees, I came, in a dark corner, upon an old wooden chest. It might instead be called a trunk I thought, for it looked as though it had weathered many an adventurous voyage in the days of some remote ancestor. Thinking that perhaps I should find some old paper or picture which might be a Valuable addition to my collection, I decided to explore its contents. Opening the top, I found inside a great mass of tattered papers and old tintypes. As I carefully investigated each item, I came upon a letter which made my heart leap, for it was signed, A. Lincoln. Hastily I turned over the paper and looked at the superscription, S. Cadogan Square, S. W., London, England, ,Iune 5, 1889. That proved the signature could not be that of President Lincoln who died in 1865. Puzzled I took the letter to Grandmother for explanation. She looked at it a moment and then said that she would tell me the story of the letter. That letter, she said, was written by the only grandson of Abraham Lincoln. c'His father, Robert Lincolnf, Grandmother explained, Hwas, at the time of the death of Lincoln's wife, the only living son of Abraham Lincoln. In Washingtoil, D. C., Robert had met Mary Harlan, daughter of Senator .Iames Harlan, who was then Secretary of the Interior in Lincoln's cabinet. Shortly afterward they were married and moved to Northshore Drive in Chicago. They had three children, Mary, Jessie, and Abraham, who was always known as Jack. Robert Lincoln was a truly fine man, though all his life he suffered from a strange inferiority complex due to the fact that he thought that any honor which he received was 11ot of his own deserving, but was given to him as fthe son of Lincolni. Though suffering from this unfortunate handicap, he Wfidfm, 193 9 i57l