The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1908-12-19
The Lone Widow.

cl1ngS about the door and around the
four walls. There is neat little gar
den before the door, and this garden is
separated from the froWning time
worn and wave-eaten cliffs by wall.
1t is beautiful evening in early au-
tumn, and from where l stand upon the
rocks, the setting sun appearing to rest
far out upon the surface of the ocean,
sends its last rays to the little cottage
and the cliffs around as a farewell ben
ediction for the night. ] see an old wo-
man sitting upon a stone bench beside
the door Her hands are folded in her
lap and her eyes are fixed upon the
broad eXpanse of ocean that stretches
out from the cliffs below. / approach
nearer, and, oh, what a sweet, kind
face; face that retains still in spite
of sixty years the loneliness of youth.
The hairs that peep from beneath the
old Irish frilled cap are gray, and the
eyes are large and mournful, for dur
ing thirty years they have watched and
waited, waited and watched for one
whom in this world they will never see
more. The old woman sitting there is
Mary Gray. Thirty years ago she was
led to the altar by her sailor boy, DON
aid Gray, and they were as fair and
blithe young couple as eye could wish
~ 7NN' VII VI liOIlt, lull VI lONG lOl lllC
future, they plighted their troth But,
alas, life was to have few joys for
them. Donald was a sailor on a large
trading vessel, and after short stay on
shore he had to depart from his young
wife. Bitter was the parting for them
1t was parting that was never more
to have meeting. Out somewhere be-
meath that broad eXpanse of ocean poor
Donald sleeps his last long sleep. and
Mary waits in vain for his return.
When she heard of the loss of Donald s
ship, her grief was terrible to see, and
her mind became unhinged.
Donald, my Donald, will return to
me-" is her constant cry, and there in
that little cottage above the sea that
poor, sad woman with the loving, visit
full eyes, has waited thirty weary years
for the sound of the footstep she will
hear no more. The owners of the ship
on which Donald lost his life allow
Mary small pension. and the neigh
bors love that lone sad woman as only
the Irish can. The men of the village
plant her garden. and the women come
down at different times of the day to
Mary's house and. bringing their knit
ting with them, they sit and talk with
her on the stone bench before the door.
And there she sits this autumn even
ing, and the Rosary beads are twined
in her frail worn fingers, and her lips
keep repeating the Ave Maria'S for
Donald's return. AS l gaze upon her
my heart is moved to the utmostS pity
and the lines of the poet rush into my
mind:
90 world so few the years we live,
Would that the life which thou dost
give,
Were life indeed.
Alas thy sorrows fall so fast.
Our happiest hour is when at last
The soul is freed
Our days are covered Ger with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor brief,
Veil all in gloom,
Left desolate of real good,
Within this cheerless solitude,
No pleasures bloom
Yes, Mary, your happiest hour will be
when at last after your weary life of
waiting, and waiting in vain, your soul
fees back to its Creator, then eternal
joy win fill your heart and the former
things will have passed away forever.
There is no garden in the village so
pretty as Mary's, and there is no place
around where the flowers bloom so
beautiful or SO early. All, sea, with thy
ever. ever sad murmur, thou vert I'M
kind to Mary Gray and, OH Mother
Earth, you are kind for you bid your
flowers bloom in all their beauty and
glory for that fond, waiting woman of
the lonely heart and WiStful eyes. And
Father Tom comes down daily TO that
cottage by the sea. After his visit to
the village school the sanity old man
would wend his way quietly down to
the stone bench before Marys door and
read his vespers there facing the ocean
breeze. When his vespers We're fin
Shed he would talk to that lonely wo-
man as no father could, and lay his
hand in benediction on her head when
ne was leaving. In that little cottage
here is sometimse seen another pathet-
c figure, and she, too, is woman, and
the people call her Mad Winny. She
was left an orphan in her youth, and
when Is years of age she went to Eng
and and found employment there in the
cotton mills While at her work she
received a blow on the head from some
IF the machinery and, being incapaci-
-ated for labor, she came back to Ire
and and eventually lost her mind She
spent her life roaming up and down
he country, living on the charity of
Ter neighbors. In every village she had
Ter house of shelter for the night, and
n this village that l speak about her
home was with Mary Gray. y hand
some, powerful girl she must have been
n her youth, judging from her present
appearance. In the summer she went
lbout barefooted and she always wore
hree cloaks of a different color, the
,uter one being white. She carried her
bread, tea, sugar, potatoes, milk, etc,
lung in different pouches and bags
Ibout her body. The children of the
yillage were very much afraid of her, |
your humble servant, ana |
veil remember how fast we used to
Jolt to our homes with the cry of, Here |
s Mad Winny," on our lips, when we
aw her coming. She dearly loved Mary |
Nary" Mad .Winny would remain at |
dary's house for about three weeks, |
md it was wonderful to see the syrnpa-
by that existed between those lonely |
and it was so sad to hear them |
ak in their rambling way about Dom |
Id. The people in the village We'd with |
ach other in their acts of kindness to |
nary Gray, and every rabbit Jim Soul |
v could lay his hands on was sure to |
e brought to Mary's house. Il ketched |
i'm, ma am" Jim would say, address
ng Mary, ION Joe Rooney's ditch, an
e waited for me as quiet as a lamb,
or he knew you wanted him, bud, be-
ora, iv l wanted him for meself, he'd |
ee me a mile away. It's wonderful
What perspicuity rabbit has, ma am.
n I'm thinkin' there's not rabbit in
he country bud has drames an night
mares ov Jim Scully." Thank you,