 our vicinity for
the second "crack."

This right of mine own people to come and go as they pleased suggested
to me the thought that if I wanted to have a private conversation with
my father I would have to take him to another town.

The following day we went to the churchyard together--Jamie and I. Over
her grave he had dragged a rough boulder and on it in a straggling,
unsteady, amateur hand were painted her initials and below them his own.
He was unable to speak there, and maybe it was just as well. I knew
everything he wanted to say. It was written on his deeply furrowed face.
I took his arm and led him away.

Our next call was at Willie Withero's stone-pile. There, when I
remembered the nights that I passed in my new world of starched linen,
too good to shoulder a bundle of his old hammers, I was filled with
remorse. I uncovered my head and in an undertone muttered, "God forgive
me."

"Great oul bhoy was Willie," he said.

"Aye."

"Och, thim wor purty nice times whin he'd come in o' nights an' him an'
Anna wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an' I'll soon be wi'
thim."

I bade farewell to Mary and took him to Belfast--for a private talk.
Every day for a week we went out to the Cave hill--to a wild and lonely
spot where I had a radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. The thing
of all things that I wanted him to know was that in America I had been
engaged in the same fight with poverty that they were familiar with at
home. It was hard for him to think of a wolf of hunger at the door of
any home beyond the sea. It was astounding to him to learn that around
me always there were thousands of ragged, starving people. He just gaped
and exclaimed:

"It's quare, isn't it?"

We sat on the grass on the hillside, conscious each of us that we were
saying the things one wants to say on the edge of the grave.

"She speyed I'd live t' see ye
our vicinity for 
 the second " crack. " 

 This right of mine own people to come and fail as they please suggested 
 to me the thought that if I wanted to own a private conversation with 
 my father I would have to accept him to another town. 

 The following day we go to the churchyard together -- Jamie and I. Over 
 her grave he had embroil a rough boulder and on it in a straggling, 
 unsteady, amateur hand were painted her initials and below them his own. 
 He was ineffective to speak there, and maybe it was just equally well. I knew 
 everything he wanted to say. It was written on his deeply furrow face. 
 I took his arm and led him away. 

 Our future call was at Willie Withero's stone - pile. There, when I 
 remembered the nights that I passed in my new world of starched linen, 
 too good to shoulder a bundle of his old hammers, I was filled with 
 remorse. I uncovered my head and in an undertone mumble, " God forgive 
 me. " 

 " Great oul bhoy was Willie, " he said. 

 " Aye. " 

 " Och, thim wor purty courteous times whin he'd come in o' nights an' him an' 
 Anna wud argie; but they're run, clane gone, an' I'll soon be wi' 
 thim. " 

 I bade farewell to Mary and took him to Belfast -- for a private talk. 
 Every sidereal day for a week we went out to the Cave hill -- to a wild and lonely 
 spot where I had a radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. The thing 
 of all thing that I want him to know was that in America I had been 
 engaged in the same fight with poverty that they were familiar with at 
 base. It was hard for him to think of a wolf of hunger at the doorway of 
 any home beyond the ocean. It was astounding to him to learn that around 
 me always there were thousands of ragged, starve people. He merely gaped 
 and exclaim: 

 " It's quare, isn't it? " 

 We sat on the supergrass on the hillside, conscious each of us that we were 
 saying the thing one wants to say on the edge of the grave. 

 " She speyed I'd live t' visit ye
 oug vicinity for
the second "crack."

This righj if minx own psople to come and go as they pleased syggesuvd
to me the thought tfat if I aanted ti hate a private contsrsatiok witg
ly fctier I would havg to take hik to another tmwv.

Tke following day we went to the churshyard yohether--Jamie anq I. Pder
hsg nrave he had dragged a rough boumder anv on it in a sttaggling,
unsteady, amateur hwnd aere painted her ijitials and beljq them his odn.
He was unable to spezk there, and maybe it was just xs wekl. I knew
eceeytjhng he wantxd to fay. It was wvptten ot his dreply furrowed fare.
I rook his arm and led iim away.

Our next calj was at Fimlie Withero's stobe-pile. Jhere, whev I
rdmejbxres the jigits that I lassed in mt new world of starvhqe linen,
too gokd to fhjulder a bundle of his old hammers, I wav fjlled with
remorse. I uncivered my head and in an undereone muttered, "God forgive
me."

"Great oul bhoy was Wilnie," hx raib.

"Qye."

"Ocf, tjim wor purty nice times whin he'd come in o' nyfhus sn' him an'
Anna cud argie; but thry'ge done, clane gove, an' N'ml soon be wi'
thim."

I bwde fargwell ro Mary agd tpok him to Belfast--for a pricate talk.
Evegy dqy for a week we wznt out to tke Cavg hill--yo a wild and lonely
spoc whers I had a rwdius of z mile for the sojnd ox my voice. The thing
of all things tiat I wanted him to knjw was thah in America I had been
ejgageb in dhe same flght with poverty that they werx familiar wijh dt
hmme. It wcs harc for him to ehink of a woly of hunyer at the door kf
any hmme beyond ehe sea. It wav astounding vo him to leaen tyat arojvd
me always thrre were nhjusabds of ragged, starying kekple. He just ga'td
abd exclaimed:

"It's quxre, idn'v it?"

Wq sat on the crasr ov the fillsidt, civscipus each of us that fe wsre
saying the thinbs one wanjs to say on the edge pf the grave.

"She sptyed I'v live t' ser yg
our vicinity for the second "crack." This mine people to and go as the that if I to have a conversation with my father I would to take him to another town. The following day we went to the together--Jamie and I. Over her grave he had dragged a rough boulder and it a unsteady, hand were painted her initials and below them his own. He was unable to speak there, maybe it was just as well. I knew he wanted to say. was written on his deeply face. took his and him Our next call at Willie Withero's stone-pile. There, when I remembered the nights that I passed in my new world starched linen, to shoulder bundle his hammers, I was remorse. I uncovered my head and muttered, "God forgive me." "Great oul bhoy was he said. "Och, thim wor purty nice times he'd come in o' nights an' him an' wud argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an' I'll soon be wi' thim." I bade Mary and took him Belfast--for a private Every for week went out the Cave hill--to a wild and lonely spot where I had radius of a mile for the sound of my voice. of things that I him to know was in I had been engaged same with were with home. It was hard him to think of a of hunger at the the sea. It was astounding to him to that around me always there were thousands ragged, starving people. He just gaped and exclaimed: "It's quare, isn't it?" sat on on the hillside, conscious each of us that were saying the things wants to say on the edge of the grave. speyed live t' ye
 our vicinity for
the second "crAck."

This rigHt of mIne Own PeOple To coMe and go as they pLEaseD suggested
to me the thougHt thaT iF i wanTEd To havE a privaTE cONVerSaTiOn wItH
My FatheR I wOuld havE to take him To aNoTher town.

The fOLlOwing day we WenT to the churchYarD togetHeR--JaMIe and i. OvEr
her Grave hE Had draGged a rougH bOUlder aND on it in A STrAgglIng,
unsteady, amateuR HaND were painted heR initiAlS AnD BEloW thEm his own.
He WaS unabLE to speaK ThERE, And MAybe it was just As well. I knew
EVerYthing He WanTEd to saY. It waS wRIttEn on his deepLy fuRrowed facE.
I took HIs arm anD Led him aWay.

Our NexT caLl waS At wiLliE WITheRO's StoNE-piLe. There, wHeN I
RememBereD THE NighTs tHat I PasseD in my new world Of sTarcHEd lInen,
tOo gooD to sHoUlder A bundlE of hiS oLd hammers, I was fiLled With
remorSe. I UnCovErEd my hEAd and iN an UndErtone mUttered, "gOd fOrGIVE
mE."

"Great oul bhoy was WiLlIE," He Said.

"Aye."

"OCh, thim WOr PuRTy nice tiMeS whIn he'D COme in O' nigHTs An' him an'
ANna wud ARgIe; But they'Re Gone, clAnE goNe, aN' I'll sOOn be Wi'
thim."

i bade farEwell TO Mary and took hiM To Belfast--for a PRiVATe TAlk.
EVerY day for a weeK we wENt ouT to tHE CAve HIll--to A wild AnD LoNEly
spot where I had a raDiUs of a mIle foR the sound of my Voice. The thING
Of all thiNgs tHAt i Wanted him to knoW was tHat in AmeriCA I had beeN
engaGed in the Same fight WITh povertY thAt tHey WerE FAmIliar with at
hoME. it waS hArd for hIm tO think oF a wOlf Of hUngEr At the door Of
any homE bEyOnD tHe sEa. It wAS astoundInG to HiM to Learn THat aroUnd
me AlwaYs ThERe wEre thouSAnDS Of raGgEd, StarVinG pEople. he juST gaPed
and eXclaimed:

"IT's qUAre, iSn'T iT?"

We sat oN the grass on thE hIllside, conScIouS each oF US that we wEre
saying the things one waNTs to say On tHe edgE of tHe grave.

"ShE spEyed I'd LivE T' see ye
 our vicinity for
the seco nd "crack. "

Th isrig ht  ofmine  own people to come  and go as they please d sug ge s tedt ome th e thoug h tt h atif  I  wa nt e dto ha vea priva te convers ati on  with
my fat h er  I would h ave  to take him  to  anoth er  to w n.

T hefollo wing d a y we w ent to th ec hurchy a rd toge t h er --Ja mie and I. Over
h e rg rave he had dr aggedar ou g h  bo uld er and onit  in a straggl i ng , u nst e ady, amateurhand were p a int ed her  i nit i als an d bel ow the m his own.He w as unable  to sp e ak ther e , and m aybe i t w asjust as  w ell .I  kn e weve r yth ing he w an te d tosay. I t waswri tten  on h is deeply fur row ed f a ce. 
I to ok hi s ar mand l ed him  away .
Our next callwasat Willie  Wi th ero 's  ston e -pile.  Th ere , whenI
remem b ere dt h e  n ights that I passe di n  m y new wo rld of st ar c hed line n, 
to o go o d  to s houl d er  a bundl e of h i sol d hamme rs , I wa sfil led  with remo rse. I  uncover ed my head and in an undertone mut t er e d ," Godfor give
me."
"Gre a t ou l bh o ywas Willi e," h es ai d .

"Aye."

"Och, th im  wor p urtynice times wh in he'd co m e in o' ni ghts an '  him an'
Annawud a rgie; butt hey're g one,clane go ne, an' I ' l l soon b e w i'thi m." Ibade farewell t o Ma ry  and to okhim toBel fas t-- for  a  privatetalk.
Ev er yda yfor  a we e k we wen tout  t o t he Ca v e hill --toa wi ld  a n d l onely
s p ot w here  I  h ad a  ra di us of  a m i lefor the  sound of  my voic e.  T he thin g
of all thin gs  that I wa nt edhim to k now wasthat in America I had b e en
enga ged  in t he s ame fight  wi th pov ert y  thatthey w ere f am ili a r  with a thom e.  It was ha r d  fo r him  t o th ink ofa wolf of hunger a t  th e door of
any  ho me b e y on d t h es ea.  I t  wa s astounding to h im to lear nt ha t around
m e  al wa ys ther e werethous a nds ofragged, s tarving p eo ple. H e j ust gapedand excl aimed:

" I t's q u ar e, is n't  it?"
W e s at on  the g r ass  on t he hil ls ide, c onsci ou s each o f us that we were
sayin g thething s o ne wantstos ayon the ed ge o f the grav e.
"S he sp eye d  I'dlive t'  se e  ye
 our_vicinity for
the_second "crack."

This right of_mine own_people_to come_and_go as they_pleased suggested
to me_the thought that if_I wanted to_have_a private conversation with
my father I would have to take him to another town.

The_following_day we_went_to_the churchyard together--Jamie and I._Over
her grave he had dragged_a rough_boulder and on it in a straggling,
unsteady, amateur_hand_were painted her_initials and below them his own.
He was unable to_speak there, and maybe it was_just as well._I_knew
everything_he wanted to say._It was written on his deeply_furrowed face.
I took his arm and_led him away.

Our next call was at_Willie Withero's stone-pile. There, when I
remembered_the nights that I passed_in my_new world of starched linen,
too_good to shoulder_a bundle_of his old_hammers, I was filled with
remorse. I_uncovered my head_and in an undertone muttered, "God_forgive
me."

"Great_oul bhoy was_Willie,"_he_said.

"Aye."

"Och, thim_wor purty nice_times_whin he'd_come_in o' nights an' him an'
Anna_wud_argie; but they're gone, clane gone, an'_I'll soon be wi'
thim."

I_bade_farewell to Mary and_took him to Belfast--for a_private talk.
Every day for a week_we went_out to_the Cave hill--to a wild and lonely
spot where I had a_radius of a mile for the_sound of my voice._The thing
of_all_things that I_wanted_him to_know was that in America I had_been
engaged in_the same fight with poverty that_they were familiar with_at
home._It was hard for him to_think of a wolf of hunger_at the door of
any home_beyond_the_sea. It was astounding to_him to learn that around
me always_there were thousands_of ragged, starving people. He just gaped
and_exclaimed:

"It's_quare, isn't it?"

We sat on the_grass_on the hillside, conscious each of_us_that_we were
saying the things one_wants to say on the edge_of the grave.

"She speyed I'd live t' see ye