Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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I heard ye, laddie, he snapped. I bein't deaf-yitf, Then he pointed to the tomb. g'Thet,s the stone I wants. No! Not thet very one, as he saw my features change, one like it. I want somethin, as'll last. 6'WeH, I returned, Hthat ought to be easy enough to get. Yah! but it ain't. This y'ere granite 'n marble, they rot, jes, like me 'n you. Ha! don't git narvous, ye can t escape it. Ye know it's true, donit ye, lad? He saw that I was becoming uneasy. His face lit up in a wickedly triumphant way. Ye'll be jes' like that . . . He picked up some dirt and threw it at my boot. He gazed in silence at the smudge. I hastily withdrew my foot and stood looking at him, not with- out some horror and fright on my counte- nance, I will warrant. Suddenly he turned on his heel and walked swiftly toward his shed. It was dark and his figure faded rapidly into the gloom. Not lik- ing the thought of being alone, I hurried through the gate and began walking towards home. As I passed the gate I tripped over some- thing embedded in the path. I got up and, on looking carefully, I saw that it was a stone. Not knowing why, I picked up a rock and dashed it with all my strength upon the other. The missile split and pieces flew in all directions. The stone in the path received a slight scratch upon its surface. I looked at the stone that I had tripped on. Then I remembered the old man's words. '4Somethin' as 'll last,', he had said. I bent down and pulled up the stone. Vengeance upon it may have been my motive, for if it had not tripped me I should have been well away from the cemetery and maybe I should have forgotten Pat's thoughts. I wished to. When I reached his shed, I saw Pat bend- ing over several objects on his table. I could hear repeated tapping. Mutterings and sighs were intermingled with the metallic clicking of something on stone. Then I understood. I-Ie was pounding some stones he had with him, with a hammer. He was trying to find out which would last the longest. The situation would have been a funny one had I not known how serious the old man was. I went to the door and knocked. The tapping within continued. I knocked again, louder. The door opened. g6What d' yer want, lad ? growled Pat. How did you . . . ', I burst out. I seed yer, lad. Pat actually laughed. His cackle sounded stage-like, but from the page sixty-six

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STONE By Roger B. Goodman The cemetery at Breau was noted for the antiquity of some of its tombstones, and the fine examples of Puritan carving which were to be found on most of them. The thing that attracted my attention when I first went there, was not any particular stone or monu- ment, but the man in charge of the grounds. One could not say for certain that he was old. His springy walk and merry, twinkling eyes belied that. Yet there was something in his voice, a harshness, or maybe a strained, cracked quality, which made him seem old. He rarely .was in the shed erected for his use. He walked through the aisles of tombs, gazing intently at each one. He muttered continuously to himself as he walked, and sometimes he stopped and shook his head as if in despair. He seemed to be looking for something. He never spoke to visitors except when he shouted Grit oifa thar,', to some fool who posed for a picture while sitting on some monument. Pat, that was the name of the old keeper, detested being asked over and over again, How old is that, or, Whose grave is this?,' He ran away from people who approached him to speak with him. He enshrouded himself in an air of mystery. I first spoke with him on a quiet August evening when the pines surrounding the burial ground nodded sleepily to and fro. The sun, setting rapidly in the distance, cov- ered the area with a golden glow which was becoming mellower every minute. All seemed to rest. As I entered the iron gate at the side, I saw him standing beside a memorial. He was absorbed in contemplating it. I ap- proached him quietly. I could hear the mur- mur of his voice as he ceaselessly chatted to himself. The tomb contained The Mortal Remains of Jonathan White and His Loving Wife Emily. The top stone had two excellently preserved carvings of a man and a woman in Puritan garb. They represented the two sleeping beneath. Every word of the inscrip- tion could be clearly read. '6What sort of stone is that?,' I queried. He wheeled. His eyes travelled from my boots to my face. He stared at me. 46Hmph, he grunted, and turned away again. page sixty-five

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way his eyes sparkled and jumped, and the way he shook, I knew that he meant it. Here's a stone I thought might interest you. I brought forth my find. He took the stone ,placed it on the table, took up l1is hammer, and without a word of thanks began pounding methodically on its surface. The picture is one that will stay in my mind's eye for a long time. The candle flick- ering near the window, and Pat pounding his stones. There was a fierceness in his face that made me think of a witch grinding magic herbs into a kettle while whispering magic words. I was filled with dread and turned to go. He seemed to sense my feelings. '6Good night, laddie,,' he croaked. Thank ye fer yer present? To hear his cracked voice was all that I needed to give power to my momentarily paralyzed limbs. I fled as swiftly as possible, but not swiftly enough to escape hearing the tapping begin again and a voice cackling and rumbling. Try as I might, I could not get out of my mind the vision of the old fellow searching for stones and trying their strength. I prom- ised myself that I should not return to the cemetery. Nevertheless, my intention, like most good ones, was never fulfilled. On the next day, as I was wandering through a small tract of land which I had recently acquired, I heard someone moving through the field. He stopped quite often, then stumbled on. It seemed as though he were trying to catch something nearby, which moved away each time he got to it. I ap- proached the spot where he was. I saw him stoop over something and strike it. I heard a click as the instrument in his hand struck a stone. I knew that it was Pat. Hallo therein I cried. He turned towards me. Good Lord, man! I exclaimed, hurrying forward. '6W'hat's wrong ?', Pat's face was more wrinkled than ever. Tears were rolling like small twisting rivers, down his face. He moaned painfully. HI cant find it, laddie, he wailed. I can't find 'un like it. Find me another, laddie, don't let me go uncoveredf' Then I saw in his hand the stone that I had given him. He was trying to match it. He was looking for a larger one like it. The situation was not a pleasant one . The old fellow rested his hand on my shoulder and sobbed like a child. page sixty-seven