The weekly Thibodaux sentinel and journal of the 8th Senatorial District. [volume] (Thibodaux, Lna. [i.e. La.]) 1875-1898, 1893-09-23
MY INDIAN SUMMER.
A Pretty r Romance Of the North
Coast Of Ireland.

"Mackerel! Fresh mackerel! Want
any, sir? just caught last night" and
the basket of shining fish was laid
utes half a dozen fine fellows were
transferred to my keeping, and then,
s%houldering his basket with a bow and
a smile, he was off. and the fresh,
clear, young voice rang out again
''Mackerel. Fresh mackerel!!"
This was my first introduction to
Ben. and it took place at a small fish
ing village on the north coast of Ire
land, where l had chosen to spend my
summer holidays, on account of it's
quiet seclusion from the big world l
was tired of. l had noticed the lad
before, standing among the other lads
about the landing place, and | had
been irreslstibly drawn to him. There
was something positively refreshing to
me in his hearty ringing laugh, and
when | first heard it l went away smil-
ing half unconsciously to myself. His
face literally brimmed over with pure
boyish fun, and the hazel eyes, white.
shining teeth, red lips, and even
tHc udl hdIl OSSSCu aDout LA IN oCd
breeze, all seemed to take part in his
laugh. That was just Ben all round
what he did he did heartily.
In a few days I found myself taking
a keener interest in the lad than | had
taken in any person for many a day,
for | vas a crusty old bachelor, sup
posed to have laid aside love and youth,
and even sympathy with my kind, in
some dim, musty cupboard, in a secret
chamber of my heart, of which 1 had
lost the key. II such was the case how
ever, Ben found it for me. He was
about fourteen, and as fine q lad as yer
delighted q mothers heart, with a way
of throwing back his head and looking
straight out of those glowing eyes of
his hat made n inwardly remark
what splendid material for manhood
lies behind those eyes" 1t was the
same half-unconscious gesture of throw
ing back the head that first led me to
notice and then to love Ben, for, far
back in the bygone years. a maiden's
hand had held the key of my souls
treasure-house, and that maiden had
the self-same look in her deep brown
eyes. and the same gesture of throwing
back her head. and the faint reSem-
'blance drew me like a magnet
followed Ben about for a week,
sometimes catching a glimpse of him
rowing a boat, with long, steady strokes;
sometimes shouldering his basket OF
fish, as | had first seen him; and on the
Sabbath l was to see my boy hero in q
new character.
The Protestant church of Sandy
Beach was perched on the top of a cliff,
and was only accessible from the lower
street by climbing a steep flight Of
stone stairs-a most disagreeable task
on a wet day. In this weather-beaten
little building | was seated on Sabbath
morning, watching the worshipers take
their places in the high-backed pews.
The service began, and what was my
surprise to see my friend Ben stand ur
to lead the singing, with all the com
posture of an old and trained singer
The sweet, glad-toned young voice rans
full and clear, and the congregation
caught up the melody, which over
flowed the building and fioated out IL
sweet sound waves over the quie
graves outside. where slept those wht
had once worshiped within these walls