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

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I took him by the arm and led him to my house. He moaned and sobbed at every step he took. When we reached the porch I gave him a chair to rest in. We both sat there, looking at our feet, sighing and muttering. Then Pat looked at me. Did yer niver think of it, lad,' he said, jist nothini. ,list like the air. Niver seen, not even felt. I was becoming annoyed with him. When- ever we met he sobbed and talked about his stone and what death was like. Look here, I retorted, not without feel- ing like a brute for scolding an old man like him, Hhave you never seen anything pleasant about life? Have you never enjoyed any- thing? You must have seen beautiful sights, heard lovely music, and had fun in your life. Why is it that whenever we meet, you carry on so'?,' The poor fellow was taken aback by my hot, impatient questioning. He stared at me in astonishment. He shook his head. Ah, lad,,' he muttered, I had a son, once, as fine a boy as iver ye set eyes on. He was a shepherd. He was all I had. ,list him an' me lived together in a little cottage. We had good times together, we did. We walked all over the country 'round there and we knew every bit of it .... Once a little lambkin was missin'. My boy went out to fetch it inf' Pat was in tears. He looked dejected and sad. He brought it in, Pat went on. He showed me a scratch he had on his arm. 'Jist a scratch, dad,' he said, 'it's nothin'. A point of stone caught me., He wouldn' even let me put nothin, on. I lost im. Blood poisonin' set inf, The old manis face twitched violently. Pvc been alone since he was took away, laddie, jist like ye see me. Then I realized why he had treated me as well as he had, and why he called me glad- diei' all the time. 6'Ye know, he continued, Pvc seen mighty fine folks tucked away. Rich ones, too. All the gaudy moniments is rottini. Ye can't even tell what they say. Take thet big 'un in the middle, laddie. He was a doctor, thet iun. He was rich, too. Now what is he? He ain't playing no harp, neither. Bah! I seen 'em all, laddie, an, you'll see me. I'm servin' the strongest master-there ain't nothin, stronger than him, laddie, nothinif' Why didn't you serve the church ? I asked. page sixty-eight

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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

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He was silent for a moment. Then he got up and walked oH'. A few days after this talk with Pat, I was strolling along a country road, enjoying the sun and fresh air, when I saw a slab on the side of a hill nearby. I was struck immedi- ately by its resemblance to the stone I had brought to Pat, both in color and texture. Uf course it was an odd thing to do but I determined to bring it to the old fellow. I had a good cart, and after digging a while I could manage to get the slab out. I went home to get a pick and shovel. I borrowed a horse, hitched it to the cart and went back. It took me several hours to do this and when I got back it was quite dark. Coming to the spot where the stone was I was greatly astonished at what I saw. The stone was gone. I could not follow any tracks so I went back, returned the horse and 'gturned inf' On the morning of the next day I went to the cemetery. I walked to the shed where Pat had his collection of stones and looked in. The stones were gone. There were flowers on the window sill, something that Pat never had. I walked away and began looking through the cemetery. I saw an old man walking through the paths, smoking a pipe. I walked up, to him. 4'Pardon me, I began. Lookin, for Pat? The words darted out at me. Yes, I replied. Where . . . ? 6'Dead! The man chuckled. 6'He was out collectin' stones last night. Got run down, the fool. Was tryin, to haul a big rock back here. The big fool.', I raced away. The amused chuckle of the new keeper sounded horribly in my ears. I found out later from the man who had run him down, that Pat had evidently seen the same stone I had and had begun to haul it away, when he was hit. There is a stone in the corner of the ceme- tery at Breau that is as rugged as it was before it was ever brought there. On it these words are inscribed: Patrick Donelly, He Served His Masterf' Though many people look at this inscrip- tion and wonder at it, and even ask the keeper what it means, they never know exactly what it signifies. I am the only one who does. page sixty-nine