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

heard this extraordinary story. They ran
eagerly down the hill towards the VILLAGE
here. You know the distance maybeY Two
long miles at least. Well, when they had
reached within half mile of this spot, sure
enough, God knows, they overlook the crazy
boy, wheeling before him on a barrow the
coffin containing the dead body of his mother.
Never did human eye see sight like this
before. He heard their hurried footsteps com
ing on behind him, and setting down the bar
row gently on the road, he turned suddenly
upon them with all the frenzy of the fercest
madness in his face, and raising up the spade
that lay beside the coffin, and brandshing it
above his head, he cried, "Baok, back, tell
you ALL touch her one of you, and I'll oleave
him Didn't tell you to bring her to Drumb-
han Didn't tell you she wanted to sleep
down here beside her father? You thought
that you were good, did you, and Father Con-
nor, too, to put her up in the hill beside the
big church there? But what did you knowl
what did you know Did she tell any of you
last night that she couldn't rest there; did
! she do that l say No, no, she came to me
J who loved her, to her own poor Ned-she
came and asked me to bring her to Drumb-
| han; and so | will-so will, l say, in spite of
| you all in spite of you all l''
So saying, he raised the barrow once again
and passed onward with his burden. They
! spoke not They made no effort to turn him
| from his purpose. Many there were who
would gladly have eased the exhausted crea-
ture Of his burden, but, awe-stricken, they
feared to approach him, and silently fell be-
hind a second time in sad procession at the
widows funeral
AT last he reached the gate there. was
| standing at it when he came. He wheeled his
burden along that path behind us, and to the
grave here. l followed with the rest, as
powerless to interfere as they. He laid down
the barrow gently again, and taking up the
I do ha hod cd wit ~ Il
the grave. | joined him. He looked at me
first inquiringly; then recognizing me- NUT
tered something to himself as if approvingly.
Other hands besides ours were soon at work, and
a few minutes more found Mary resting by her
fathers side and the last sod carefully re-
placed-when failing only when his task was
done, the worn-out boy sank senseless upon
the grave.
They carried him away gently, and when
consciousness returned, they soothed him with
kind words. The women blessed him and
praised his mother, and his love for her, till
recollection returned, and tears for his loss
stole silently down the idiots cheeks. All
traces of passion had disappeared, and in its
place there seemed the evidence of new
7 born intelligence in the mute yet expressive
sorrow of that pale face.
He went with them without a murmur;
{ several times turned hastily whilst in sight of
the graveyard to look back, then disap-
peared.
All that day the picture of that poor crea-
ture and the scene in which he played so
strange a part, haunted me at every step.
Still saw him coming as he did that morn
t ing down the hill; the barrow, the coffin, the
crowd walking solemnly after. Still saw it
through that long, long day, and leave my
fancy it would not. That night could not
rest. True, had loved poor Mary and had
loved her boy; still had laid away in their
narrow beds many, very many that were dear
to me, linked to my affection by the closest
ties of kindred, but had never sorrowed, old
man as was, as had done that day; never
felt such awe at the untold mystery of our
nature and the wonderful ways of my God.
In the morning | arose early, early for me,
and although no duty called me here till after
early prayers, l took my spade upon my
shoulder and came upon my way, feeling
drawn towards the place, l knew not why.
The morning was as beautiful as this one,
and, as think have said before, the season
of the year the same. Already here and Their.
l noticed, as l came along, familiar faces in
the fields, and some, too, ofmy neighbors met
upon the road; but contrary to my usual GUS
, tom avoided the familiar chat so frequently
, indulged in when we met each other at such
an early hour, passing on with ''good NOR
row" only, eager to reach Drumbhan.
Some twenty minutes brought me to the
chapel, for | lived then as | do now, a short
mile below there. / went in to say a prayer,
, conscious of my weakness, in the hope to
. shake the weight from off my shoulders that
pressed me down SO heavily. Thence passing
into the graveyard here, turned my eyes in
this direction to behold, PROSTATE upon the
, grave Of his mother the loving, harmless boy.
My knees trembled as with palsy. How
came he here | said, and whenl Why, /
asked not; knew too well of this love that
was more than earthly. Tottering, drew
near; called him by his name He answered
not. called again. No voice replied; nor
, sound, nor motion was there save the
echo of my voice and my hurried foot
, fall as neared the spot. l stopped,
| raised him in my arms, 1 parted from
his brow the long hair damp with the
dew OF morning. gazed upon that pale, pale
face, which, in the holy peace that rested
there, spoke of the goodness and the mercy of
our Heavenly Father into whose holy keep
ing the spotless soul had passed. He was
dead.
The sexton's tale was told.
|