The Irish standard., 1916-04-22


They were abandoned save for little
patches Of cane here and there,
punched up against little hen-coop
houses.
Got home, boy?"
Gerry turned and found the Barba.
dian standing beside him. "a home!"
he answered, his thoughts flying to
Red Hill, II should think l have and
It's a Ii" Gerry caught himself but
not in time.
The Barbadian nodded slowly. 81
KNOW" he said, "you were going to say
It's live one. Well, as to that, don't
you make mistake. This home is
alive too-just exactly as alive as I
am, for I'm the last of the Barbados
Malcolms.
Home" he went on, "isn't alto.
gether matter of cash, comfort and
cool drinks. Sometimes it's just a
gathering place for memories.
There was time when we whites
stood fifteen to one over the blacks on
this island. Now the tables are turned.
A chap that only takes drink every
time he sees a white man would have
to so to mass meeting to get drunk.
Lately they've been sending out
scientific commissions from England
to sit like coroners on this mound in
the sea. They say they're going to
bring the corpse back to life. I've been
offered big price for this old place
but I'm not selling"
Gerry looked at the Barbadian's
rather shabby clothes. "Why don't
you sell if you don't want to work the
place? It's worth money. 1 know
enough to tell you that"
The Barpadian rested one hand high
on the thick trunk Of a wistaria. A
slow smile drew the corners of his
mouth. Worth money!" he echoed.
MY boy, not every man kills the thing
that he loves best. This is my home,
You read those dates written in dust
and still you thought my home was
dead. But is isn't dead. l haven't
killed the thing that love best You
almost anywhere, but l have remem.
bered that memories travel only beat.
en- paths"
Even as Gerry picked his way back
to the waiting cab he felt Red Hill
reaching out for him, drawing him,
And during the long, slow drive to the
quay he learned that he had passed the
crossroads that had given so long a
pause to his troubled soul. The Bar
badian had opened his eyes. Doubt
| left him. There was but one road-the
road back-and it was open. He wrote
his cable to Alix with a firm hand.
The freighter reached quarantine
after quiet voyage twelve hours
ahead of time and just at shutdown.
A tug hurried down the bay to tell
them their berth was not ready. The
freighter was forced to anchor at the
mouth of the narrows. Gerry watched
the lights spring out from the shadowy
shores. They beckoned him to familiar
scenes. Staten Island had been to his
boyhood an undiscovered land and the
scene Of his first wanderings. Bay.
shore he knew through constant pass.
ing by. In the sky beyond it, hung the
glow Of the summer city, here and
there pierced with the brighter fame
Of some grotesque monstrosity.
Up the bay the dark waters forked
into two bands that lost themselves in
sea and sky of twinkllng lights. He
could just determine the sweeping arch
Of Brooklyn bridge and the presence Of
more than one new Tower of Babel
that broke the ever-changing skyline
Of bis native city and made him feel,
by that much, forgotten and an alien.
But from all the myriad lesser lights
his eyes turned gratefully to the high.
held torch Of Liberty. Beneath 1t, the
familiar, tilted diadem, the shadowy
folds draping the outstanding pose,
the strength and steadfastness and the
titanic grandeur Of the statue. carried
their message to him a. never before.
It became to him what ito creator had
conceived. an emblem. and the myriad