The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-04-06

On leaving the church at the conclusion of |
the mass, reioined the sexton, who had
stopped a moment at the porch for his spade,
where he had left it in the angleas we entered.
! followed him across the yard, and through
the wicket which separated us from the bury
ing-ground Calling my attention to some of
the more imposing monuments of the place,
he passed forward along the narrow pathway
to perform the melancholy task which he had
told me was bis first duty of this mOrning-to
make grave for the last the very last Of the
companions of his boyhood one, he said,
whose DEATH like his life, was all peace. and
that was part of the reward of the gentleness
of his nature, the fulness of which was here
after. ....'
Passing from stone to stone, to linger for
moment at this which told its tale of the early
call of the young and innocent, or at that
which spoke of many years and mayhap of
many sorrows, stopped near to one which,
from the quaintness of the inscription and
chaste simplicity of its form had a peculiar
attraction for me. 1t was a cross in granite
with a wreath not unskilfully chiselled crown
ing the upper limb, whilst along the extended
arms was a single line, "The Widow and her
Son."
Leaning on amore aspiring tombstone near,
read again and again these simple words all the
while imagination doing its work of making a
history for the mother and her child, when
from this my second reverie OF the morning |
was again aroused by the voice of my aged
friend
81 see you have been reading that inscrip.
ton, sir, he said. 81 have, l replied, ''and
it has stirred my curiosity rather strangely.
1t seems to me that there is much which the
tombstone does not tell"
every much indeed, sir, " returned the sex
ton; "look around me as may at thsee familiar
forms, there is not one amongst them tells as
sad a tale as this one"
ly M m " MI tU
l said; "and even if it be the saddest of your
sad experiences, and that | did not fear to
trespass too much upon your feelings or your
time, should ask you to tell me the story of
those whose resting-pace is thus beautifully
yet strangely marked"
''No trespass, sir, no trespass," the old man
replied. 'If the story be one to recall
scene which will make my old eyes weep, it
will just be such a one as suits my heart this
morning. So having yet an hour to spare be-
fore the remains of my old friend can reach
the ground, we shall sit down upon this grave
here whilst tell you the story of Mary Dono-
van and her boy"
CHANGING around to see that no unexpected
duty called him, he seated himself on the
mound proposed | sat down beside him, an
eager listener to that which follows, given to
you in words as near his own as may be, but
wanting in that richness of accent and fgura-
tive expression peculiar to his class and to his
country.
Had business or pleasure called you to Cas-
tlewellan some six years ago, began the
sexton, you could hardly have failed to meet
good-natured innocent,% some seventeen or
eighteen years old ever to be seen the first Bla-
ney's when traveller pulled up his horse for
refreshments or coach car to set down or to
receive a passenger. Ere the rattle of hoof or
/ wheel had ceased in the courtyard before
the inn, the voice of poor Ned Donovan was
/ sure ofall upon the strangers ear in greeting
wild, yet musical, and with that popularity of
expression which told the story plainly that
/ he was one of those to whom, for his own
wise purpose doubtless, God had been but
sparing in the gilt of mind. And yet there
was a childish jOyousness in his every look
and tone that compensated in some measure
for his misfortune, evidence as it was that he
was saved from the cares and anXieties COM
mon even to those of his early years.
Ned loved the horses and the cars, and
knew every professional driver that came that
way to fair or market for miles and miles
around. He reserved, however, especial
affection for the regular roadsters, man and
BEAST those, mean, that drove daily to
Blaney's from Newry, Rathfriland, or Dro-
more. The men, well acquainted with his
ways, never spoke hasty or unkind word to
him, although he was occasionally self willed
in the matter of the hOrse-feed and the water
ing. The horses naturally returned the affection
of one whose attendance upon them was un-
tiring. He talked to them incessantly in
public or in private their comfort occupied
the first place in his thought. He curried
whisked them down, patted and praised their
best points with all the enthusiasm of con-
noisseur, or, when the like happened mourned
over broken knee or a windgall as over some
serious domestic trouble, as indeed to him it
was. All this and more of the kind was done
without fee or reward, save the privilege at all
hours of the kitchen tireside and the stables,
with an occasional ride down to the river, ''wid
the creatures for drink, - as he would say,
or ''to wash the mud from their legs, and bad
scran to it,
Few days passed, however, failing to bring
him chance horse to hold for fine gentle
man ovid boots and spurs bedad" or when
he had not an errand to run, or to lend help
ing hand with the luggage of some generous
traveller; and with these opportunities came
siXpences, sometimes even shillings, for his
trouble, but oftener Just because he was Ned
Donovan. Many to whom his story was un.
known often wondered at the glistening eager
eye with which he counted his earnings over
and at the happiness an additional siXpenct
seemed to give him; all this was so unlike the
hourly evidences of his most unselfsh nature
Strangers, less charitable in mind than in
pocket, led astray by this seeming love O.
money, not unfrequently thought that much
of the boys idiocy was put on, and they said
so but they did not know him, nor happily
he the meaning of their sneers. 1t was anus
ing to follow him at the lucky moment wheI
he got a shilling or so in this way, when he
invariably made straight for the bar of the inr
TO deposit il with the utmost gravity of man