Omaha daily bee., 1889-06-07
HE souRED ON THE WORLD.
The Strange story OF n San Francisco
RpcInsp


The Strange story OF n San Fran cisco
Recluse.
Under the shadow of beetling cliff
that overhangs the southern shore OF
the Golden Gate stands little shanty
not more than ten feet square, but built
to endure against the eternal trade
winds coming in from the Pacific ocean,
says the San Francisco Examiner. It's
unassuming exterior and general mis-
cradle appearance are in measure
compensated for by it's very romantic
location. To a casual observer it is a
fishing hut or some kind of signal sta
tion; but looks are often deceitful, and
the truth of such adage comes forcibly
to the mind when the observant one is
told a family of three have lived a
strange existence in this lonely spot
an existence that still has much of its
whilom romantic association.
Old Ned Flynn, the lord and master
of this weather-beaten hovel, was
once wealthy, and figured prominently
in mining and stock circles when only
pioneers were in San Francisco. But
reverses came, and he dropped out of
the race for wealth in which the
''bonanza" men were so successful.
His hoard, that accumulated more rap
idly than he ever dreamed of before he
came from His home in New York to
California in search of gold, vanished
just as quickly as it had rolled IN upon
him. He returned to his old trade Of
machinist and worked for years in city
shops. Gradually his misfortune preyed
upon his mind until at last he soured on
the world and became recluse from
his fellows, settling in place where he
could be far away from men, with
whom he was compelled To work a por-
tion OF his time to keep body and soul
together and support a son and laugh
ter. 1t was then he selected this wild, L,
romantic location for his hermit home
beside the sea.
Before the Powell Street Railway
company ran its line around the hills
and crags of the Golden Gate Ned
Flynn was seldom troubled by the sight
of human face near his habitation. and
like Robinson Crusoe, he felt as if he
were master OF all he surveyed. Now,
however, the picturesque place is daily
visited by sightseers, and also by art
students. who sketch in the bright sun
shine and study rocks and sea or paint
the little house, ,unmindful of its history.
The trains stop above it at a station
appropriately named Fair View, and a
pathway leads. Struggling through "a
scrubby brushwood. to the beach. A
short distance east of the station is Ned
Flynn's shanty, which can be seen
from the cars as the train passes the
second curve between Point Lobos and
the tunnel. Just where the surf rolls
breaks on a white, sandy cove the old
man built hut of driftwood and loose
rocks about four years ago. He lived
rent free outside the tide limits during
the summer season. but the wintry
waves washed his crude structure away.
Adolph Sutrothen gave the hermit the
present shanty, charging him 81 a
month as security against squatter's
claim.
Flynn says he is better off alone than
in the city. He has free spring water
ripping by his door, more driftwood in
the canon than he can burn. room for
domestic fowl on the sand and Il good
fishing ground. 1t is a very striking
and incongruous contrast to see the
fowls beside the surf, as it keeps up a
continual boom in the caverns through
the cliff.
Ned did not do much work until the
railroad gave him employment on the
track. At times only would he 60
down town to earn some money in the
foundries, and then necessity compelled
him. A year ago his daughter, Il
young woman of about twenty years OF
age, went to live with him and her
brother in this ill-Suited abode, where
she died last month from hasty con-
sumption.
"She used to wander around here all
day said Il conductor on the Cliff road,
land never had any girls come to see
her. The poor girl had lonely life
before she died. 1t is just as well for
herself she is gone.
She was not strong by any means
when she left her work to lie down
there" he continued, pointing toward
the little shanty. But, guess, it was
enough to kill her.
''For long time none Of us saw her,
and then some women from Point
Lobos road went down there every day
and nursed the poor thing for months.
the women say her death was as sad
and lonely scene as ever any one i'm
agined. They buried her quite decently
in the cemetery over the hill, but the
funeral was indeed an affecting sight.
''There is no road or any kind of level
pathway from the shanty, so they had
to carry her coffin up the trail and
through the rocks and sand dunes as
there in the brush as they climbed the
canon.
1.-THE old man told me he built the fog
siren across at Point Bonito when he
was a machinist. l know its dismal
voice used to blow pretty regularly
across the Golden Gate when his girl
was dying. Some of the boys say it was
blowing when she was laid in her grave,
like funeral knell.
'Old Flynn is more distant and lone
some now than before his daughter
died, and has less to say to any of us.
Once in while he forgets things and
takes on at a great rate. He is working
with his son in the French cemetery
now"
His young daughter is also there, but
she is under the sod. They keep her
grave green.