Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-01-30
GOATVILLE SOCIETY.
GOATVlLLE IS ON MANHATTAN ISL
 AND AND IT IS A GREAT PLACE.

AND AND TT IS A GREAT PLACE. Region Where Goats, shanties and Poor
 People Who Pay No Rents Arc Para
 mount-A Visit in the Night to Two
 Cabins.
 Especial Corespondence.l
 NEW YORK, Jan. 1.-The fact is diffi- cult to believe, and yet it is true as death, that in this teeming city, where almost every inch of ground is worth it's weight in yellow gold, there are a few house. holders who pay no rent. This state ment, however, does not necessarily im- ply an arcadian condition of affairs on the part of those interested. It can safely be said, without fear of contradiction, that most of the readers of this article would rather pay rent than occupy the quarters exempted by these squatters. The persons referred to arc for the greater part Irishmen, unfortunate fot- sam and jetsam whom the tide of pros- perity failed to float into the official chambers of the city government or other well paying positions. The partic- ular locality is at the foot of East Sev- enty-second street. Here, upon the sum- init of rock which overlooks the swirling currents of the East river, are situated some fifty shanties, built of al- most every conceivable material, and mostly in the pure Irish style of archi- lecture. The lover of the queer and picturesque can find here his paradise. Herds of goats wander at will through the labyrinthine passages between the huts, and search in vain for blade of grass or any living thing, although across the rushing river they can see with tan talizing distinctness the velvety sward of Blackwell's Island.
 Old boats have offered up their ribs for supports in these primitive houses. Boards which once did duty in a fence have assumed the dignity of clapboards, their decaying fbers hidden by the vanishing whitewash. Old lattices over whose green diamonds once bloomed the ruddy rose and the ambitious morning glory, now serve as barriers against the hungry goat, and seem to say, "To what base uses are we come at last" And the roofs! thatched with straw, and the moro pretentious indifferently covered with shingles, through the rotting fin gers of which the rain drips down upon the beds and the stoves with aggravating impartiality. An old and worm eaten chestnut will fit in nicely here: The rich can ride in chaises
 An tn poor-th' poor-be jaberS, The poor can walk!
 This curious hamlet upon a rock is known in the vicinity by the expressive name of Goatville. Every visitor to the spot is regarded with suspicion as being a possible official of the department of public works or a real estate agent con- ing to servo papers of ejectment. One evening short time since, when the wind, with winter in it, was whistling drearily through the streets and a typi- cal New York winter driZzle was fall ing, the writer paida visit to Goatville i'll search of material for this article. He was accompanied by young Her. cules, the bully of the neighborhood, who acted as guide and protector for the nominal sum of fifty cents. His name was Tom Malony, and as he had thor oughly canvassed Goatville in the ca | pacity of an insurance agent insuring | children, he knew every man, woman, 1 child and goat in Goatville. He carried of a brewers wagon. Before starting Tom oiled his internal machinery with a big glass of raw spirits Wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, he said by way of warning:
 ''Luk here, me laddybuck, you said you was a reporter, didn't you? Now, I'll lave it to yersel! We'll, if I find ye've been tellin' me lies I'll giv' ye a tap wid this wheel spoke as Il crack yer l SAull llhe du eSS SueI!
 l When we arrived at the door of the Widow Murphy's shanty, Tom hesitated a minute before knocking and repeated his warning as follows:
 'Now, ye're cock sure reporter an no ballyraggin' afore we go further. Mind, I'll be as good as me word!'
 The night was dark. Still, there was l light enough for me to see that wheel spoke cutting curves in the air above l A f%o,. 1> t,f Tom knocked upon the door with his stick and voice inside said:
 "Come in."
 | The door opened into a room where Toms head struck the ceiling. It con- tained a bed, stove, a bureau, and upon the walls hung various cheap prints of religious character. Mrs. Murphy, a woman of sixty, unkempt and rotund, was frying potatoes upon the stove, and pretty girl was seated upon the bed trying to read letter by the light of tallow candle.
 "God save all herew said Tom, in a perfunctory manner. Then, with jerk of his thumb in the direction of the young woman and Q wink he said:
 What's that ye're readin', Mary?"
 "A letter from me brother in Sing Sing" replied Mary, raising her pink and white face, which formed a setting ] "Here, you read" she continued; I'm no scholar"
 Tom took the letter in his big hand and stood the wheel spoke against the bureau. Then be read a brief tale aloud of an aching heart beating like caged bird against prison bars; of repentance which came too late; of clumsily ex- pressed hopes of better life "when me time is up," which longed for period would not occur until one year from the last Christmas. And as he read those pregnant words, written in con- triton and bad ink, Mrs. Murphy stopped turning the potatoes in the pan and drew near. A silence fell upon the little group gathered around the flicker ing candle, and mingling with the sputtering of the grease on the stove and the singing of the tea kettle came a smothered sound as of heart break from the lips of the mother whose only boy xyoo d foloO ProftvSs Morvsc ovoc fno