He was older than most of the other boys, and was a general favourite
with all. He was famous for relating funny stories, of which he had a
never-failing supply; and when the day was too stormy to allow of
out-of-door sports, during the noon hour, we used to gather around the
large stove which stood in the centre of the room and coax H. M. to tell
us stories. The story which recurred to my mind was of a poor Irishman,
who, in describing a visit which he paid to the home of his childhood
after a long absence, said: "At the sober hour of twilight, I entered
the lonely and desarted home uv me forefathers, an' as I gazed about the
silent walls, I said, 'me fathers, where are they?' an' did not echo
answer, 'Is that you Pathrick O'Flannigan, sure?'"
I was in no mood for laughter, and yet I could not repress a smile, as
memory recalled the comical voice and inimitable gestures with which
young H. M. related the story. He was beloved by us all, and when he
left school we parted from him with real sorrow. As I walked around, and
looked upon the worn and defaced desks, I observed the initials of many
once familiar names which many years before had been formed with a
knife, which were not so much obliterated but I could easily decipher
the well known letters.
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