The Waterbury Democrat., 1943-09-04
Good Evening.


 EPISODE When you're small boy just turned twelve and you're summoned from your classroom in an Irish boarding school to the Heads office, you reacE as every motorist reacts to the motorcycle cops Fu pver to the curb" You wonder what you have done or what you haven't done for there so many things that you have done that you shouldn't have done ana there are so many undone things that you should nave oone
 So when the call to me that Father Rector wished to see in his study the polite wish neld no promise of pleaSantneSS Before the aWed nocKng, or Evnpathetic eyes-depending their regard for me of my classmates tried to square my shoulders ana to sck mv chin out like Marie Antonette being led to the Rulotne though felt like worm about to be cruSneo'
 Tn the cool corridors when was alone, and there was no one to me, all my peccadioes paced before me- and thought of running away. But that was not easy to do It was not easy G dO % S were taught not to be cravenS. There was no alternative Slow reluctant feet brought to the Heads door, ana I knocked bravely as could.
 When entered received a surprise. The Head naturally genial, gentle priest who understood small boys and was an ogre only in the eyes of errng small boys greeted me smilingly passed few remarks and then asked me question
 "Eddie," said he where are the Canary 1sands9"
 "Oh, treacherous falsenesS of that pleasant smile! For didn't know
 "wel that's too bad Eddie" the Head laughed, "for how can boy go to place when he doesn't know where it is?"
 And then he told me. My father had written him, asking leave of absence for me to accompany him 10
  was leaving that very afternoon That very afternoon was to set out by myself and suitcase to drlVe m hackney car to sans station and tram iron tnere to Dublin jaunt in another hackney to another sta tion then another train to Kingstown, which IS now called Dunleary, then boat to Hollyhead Tn Wales, and lastly train to London where my father was waiting for me, and very glad to see him indeed
 And that is how, after an Arabian Nights sort of trip on an old Elder DempSter tub, and an a1ay drive in a hOrSedrawn wagon across Tenerife from Santa Cruz to OrOtava, found myself with my father in the Fonda MarqueSa which was small spanish mn nnrvelng at everything, and rapidly acquiring Span sh which was the only tongue really spoken in the Fonda Marquesa
 The town was lovely SOnOmlent little town with botanical gardens, beautiful, you wanted to cry and so very poor that you wanted to give pennies to all the beggarS who mportuned you for alTs There the sea, of course the wild Atlantic, it's great breakers crashing and cascading the stout mole behind the safety of which the small fishing boats rode at anchor And there the frendlness of the dark skinned Spanards with flashing black eyes, and white even teeth, who smiled at the little stranger from abroad There were the funny street oil lamps which went unlighted moonlt nights-tO save money And there was a church.
 The church was magnificent edifice, almost of cathedral size and even I wondered how such fine church came to be built in little fishing town, where beggars rampant, and street lamps were not lit when the moon shone.
 We went into it, of course and strolled around, awed by it's Gothic simple beauty And we knet each In his own PrieDieu-char and said prayer, and then examined the chapels minutely
 In one, my fathers glance strayed to the figure of Saint on top of the carved granite altar. He pointed with his stick and he turned merry, blue questioning eyes on me.
 "Eddie," he asked "who's that Saint up there?"
 peered up at the small figure. "It's, it's St. Patrick, think" said.
 "St Pat it isl" My father exclaimed, delighted as small child with new toy. But by the Lord Harry what's he doing out here?"
 Then his eyes swept to the floor of the little chapel in this fine church. in the poor little town of Orotava In the floor there were two stone slabs. Under one was buried the architect of the church. Under the Other-the builder. We read their names, and their names familiar the bOgS of Xiii dare, or mist the MOurne Mountains.
 My father turned to me, and his lips quiver- ing in pleased amusement 'That explains everything Eddie" he said. 'TwO IrShmen who had good idea"
 didn't quite know what he meant but went out of the church-the both of us chuckling-he because of what he knew and what know now, and l. because he Was chuckling and life was very good
 Edmund Leamy.
 Folks who say it hurts to borrow often can't bear the agony of paying back. Walter Hagen, golf pro- had his gas ration books suspended for speeding Oh wel he does his best driving outside of his auto November, am~W ml.A. R~~