HIS MOTHER'S GRAVE

NZ Truth, Issue 946, 12 January 1924, Page 12

HIS MOTHER'S GRAVE

AGED SWAGMAN'S ANNUAL PIItKGI

Six Hundred Miles Tramp

OCTOGENARIAN, HOBO, CRITIC, HUMORIST AND IDEALIST

\ (From "truth's" Sydney Rep.) The reason why so many of this world's Idealists should be found without places to lay their heads would seem prima faoie td be either that there is something wrong with the world, or something wrong with the idealists. 1 But perhaps as likely a possibility is that there Is something a bit wrong alike with the idealists and with the world, too, and that both will do better m the generations to come. As for the year just closed the prize for its master idealist oan be handed without further ado to Kay Patrick Hughes, 89 years of age, who was found drunk m Campbell Street, Parramatta, on the njght of December 22. , He had iust returned from a 600- mile pilgrimage on foot to his departed mother's grave. Every year, for the past five years, he has made the same journey, always on foot. One out of the box, indeed, is the same K. P. Hughes, Esquire. He has strength of character, as well as a delicate subtlety of mind. His make-up, too, contain? Imagination, humor, human kindness, and worldly wisdom, all of those attributes m fact* which go to make up a charming personality.

The old fallow appeared at Farramatta Polio© Court on Xmas Bye. He is a little over medium height, well set-op, straight and active with a halo of snow white curls around his ruddy smooth countenance. But for the very whiteness of those same curls he might b« taken for any age back to fifty. He pleaded goaty to the charge of having been found dnmk, "I left Parramatta Old Hem's Asylum early m September,? he told Mr. Chippendall, X>.___L, "and walked to Wagga to visit my mother's grava. I had lust got back, your Worship, and I did have a few drtnlat" Now this particular. D.SJM. Is one of the most humane "Benches" ever appealed to by a trembling wretch m the dock. With an air of cold impartiality, ?Tt" made a few notes on the charge sheet and then glanced over "ltd" spectacle to the deposition clerk below. "By the Way, what is the date again" "It" asked. "The 24th, your W!orshlp," came, the ready answer. , The Bench carefully the writing. "Five shillings, or the rising," "It" ordered. So m a very few minutes the old pilgrim was allowed to collect his swag and things out at the police station and depart m peace. The "Truth" went after him and found him m the main street "Yes, what I told the Bench Was correct, of course," he affirmed, with Just a suggestion of dignity m his honest green eyes. "Lying is the refuge' of slaves, the last resort of coward** and he added a quotations "You can fool all the world with a tale that's not true, But you can't tell a (te to your soul." , ' ;■'. Then he told a bit of his story, parrying with masterly . .act some questions as to the more intimate details of it. He was born In Sackville Street, Dublin, In 1834, and came here with his mother when he was twenty-four. "I have left the institution every year for the last five years," he stated, "m time to visit her grave on my birthday, October SO. The trip is «00 miles, there and back. Yes, I always walk, and I earn my living along the road. I have never begged. "Some people think it's a strange proceeding," went on the old fellow. "I don't think so. Isn't a good mother's memory worth that much trouble to keep green? NOT ALL. MOTHERS. "You know, all the women who bear families are not mothers,* he added. "Many of them are mere incubators. My mother was a real mother. Her name was Mary. A real mother is the nearest thing In character to our eonceptlon of Godl "I reckon on going to her grave every year for another eleven years," said the old fellow. (In eleven years he will have notched the century mark). "I can't tell you what I thought of her, but 1 can tell you this, that when she died I was stricken so mad as to curse God, and since then I have slept alongside her grave more than once." Memories Were making his eyes grow dim, so the ■ subject was gradually changed. "Where did you get that quotation about fooling an the world, but not 1 being able to fool yourself," he was asked. A twinkle of humor came Into the grey eyes. "Do you really want to know?" he Queried. "Til tell you If you think it Is any good. I wrote it myself." With some difficulty he was then persuaded to give the whole of that one verse. It was said of old that the greatest truths ore mighty m their simplicity. This text is an example of that rule: "You can fool all the world with a tale that's not true. But you can't tell a lie to your soul. Mine knows all my past, mvmry step of the road Which I've travelled m days that arm gone. In the springtime of youth it was there when I played In the fields that were yellow at dawn. . It has followed my trail through the world, through the towns, It has stood by my tide at the bar. It has followed my trail up hill and down dale, , * And it knows all my deeds as they are." "Yes, I have written a fow verses while I've been on the track," said Kay Patrick. "Nothing any good, of course. I will send you some along if you like, but they are only jingles. You are too flattering altogether about that little piece I just repented." And Kay Patrick Hughes, 89, a hobo, a man of the world, a poet, a critic, v humorist, and above all an Idealist here picked up his sw_g and reluctantly announced that he would "have to be getting along.^ ...... During the interview he showed a fairly wide acquaintance with English, European and Celtlo literature. And hiß talk on public and international questions was most unlike the fool's talk on such matters to which one so often is led by false politeness to listen. „ _ , But when the conversation turned on to early education, and he was asked where his own school days had boon ttpont, he always elected to talk about something else. Ho shouldered his swag and tramped away down the hot dusty road which leads to—whore does the road lead- to? The problem recalls one of the little known verses of tho lato lamented Henry Lawson. He too, was an Idealist, and a tramp, when he wrote at near the end of things: "Now, where am I going with my whisky flask. And with little else besides? New, where am I gemg with my second shirt To wear while my first one dries? I've ruined my name, and I've lost my fame, But my heart's In good repair} And I'm bound for the Lord K news Where, old chap. I'm bound for the Lord Knows Where." This old man disappearing In the distance, swag on back, billy In hand.

! with smoke clouds full of old memor* lies fading into air behind his footsteps was Just an older Lswson. ■ And the final "Land of the Lord Knows Where" which so relentlessly calls for Immigrants from among those we lore, most, ere many years call him also. Perhaps then, despite the fact that this world arrested him for having; been found drunk, his sightless soul may find its way to the same haven as that of his little mother. In such a time he will be able to explain everything to her, and be understood. Anyway, should he be spared for another eleven .years, as he trusts he will be, each 20th day of October, up to that of the year of jfrace, 1935, will find him praying- above that little mound which marks his mother's grave, down Wagga way, just as nearly a century ago he pr&yed beside her knee — away across the sea In a little green isle!