![]() ![]() The breeze pushes smoke from the fire up through the stone chimney. During balmy summer days, the large door is always open, welcoming light and air into the house. There's a low half-door too, placed in front of the full mahogany door like a snug wooden apron. The front door is mahogany, salvaged from some drowned ship along the shores of the Irish Sea, as tightly fitted in that doorway now as any man could make it. He sees the small windows like tiny eyes in the face of the house, the glass reflecting the rising sun. ![]() It is never the same and always the same. On other days, the early morning sun throws a golden glaze upon its white facade. ![]() On some days, a wisp of smoke rises from the chimney. The boy named Robert Carson loves gazing at that house, basking in its permanence and comfort. Standing there, he knows it will turn pale blue when the sun appears to work its magic. He is staring at the house where he lives: the great good Irish place of whitewashed walls, long and low, with a dark slate roof glistening in the morning drizzle. There he is, three days after his fifth birthday, standing barefoot upon wet summer grass. They gathered in secret, deep in the dripping glens,Ĭhanting their prayers before a lichened rock. We took their temples from them and forbade them,įor many years, to worship their strange idols. ![]()
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