OCTOBER INQUISITOR
OCTOBER’S INQUISITOR
Here’s a brief summary of the newspaper to keep us up-to-date on what’s current at Seton.
A Storied Honoree
ST. JOHN BOSCO AWARD 2011 – MRS.
TRANSITIONS
TRANSITIONS
10 Categories
10 Categories
The Inquisitor Knows
The Inquisitor Knows
Got the September issue of Seton’s newspaper on the last day of the month and wanted to pass on to those who don’t get a chance to read it the news/editorial info that it contains.
Editor-in-Chief Hutton Jackson had a great 1st editorial. Here’s part of the concluding paragraph:
“…we rarely fear that we have nothing to contribute, but that others won’t accept what we have to offer. It is when we feel this way that there is really only one solution to finding our purpose in life: prayer. After all, who is the only one who knows you better than you do, but God? So this school year let us all try to be ourselves in all we do and be accepting of everyone as well. As St. Francis de Sales said, ‘Be who you are and be that well.’”
The lead article was a tribute to Dr. Carroll with a picture of Dr. and Mrs. Carroll cutting their wedding cake. Here’s a quote from the story written by Shannon Kerns:
“…even after he was disabled by strokes, he attended Mrs. Carroll’s classes at Seton, sitting in the front. As he became more frail, often when Mrs. Carroll would leave the room he would cry out for her. Anytime a test was being taken, he would want her to be right there next to him holding his hand. The couple was inseparable and the pure love they shared set an example of how Catholic couples should live.”
Advice by Aunt Betty and Uncle Benny was given to a 7th grader finding it hard to make friends right away. Here’s a piece of it:
“You know, I don’t think I ever would have met Aunt Betty if I didn’t find the courage to break the ice and introduce myself to her. (Yes, Aunt Betty was just as shy as you and I…But that’s another story for another time.)”
The debate column featured the opposing views of Matt Hassan and the duo of Vincent Dunn and Michael Collins who argued whether reading the book or seeing the movie is superior. As part of their arguments each used The Lord of the Rings. Matt pointed out that some of the characters were much different in the movie than they were in the book; Vincent & Michael argued that the movie condensed the series of novels into a more understandable form while maintaining the author’s themes.
Page 6 featured earthquake articles. Annie Tohill tells us what some students initially thought the earthquake was including a garbage truck and an animal falling on the roof. James Mossimann was inspired to write a poem: “Trees were shaking; the ground was quaking, and my head was aching. I bent over, and I gasped for air. The quake was over; our lives were spared.”
Shannon Kerns told of the Munsons, Zambranas and Salases pilgrimages to World Youth Day in Madrid.
Sports came next with Matt Hassan now reporting on the cross country team which is the largest in recent history. We’re told that the boys have a tradition of singing (if it can be called that) right after they pray the Rosary at their practices. At meets the girls cheer for everyone, regardless of what school they are running for. In a recent meet the boys took 3rd through 6th place led by Stephen Shaw in winning the meet.
And the boys soccer team is off to a good start according to A.J. Godeaux. After last year’s 1-7-2 record, they already have three wins against two losses. I can add here that the record has just been improved with their latest victory over Highland 3-1.
Grace Remington and Grace Godeaux then give us the heads up on the NFL and MLB with very professional analysis of the seasons.
A.J. follows that up with a student spotlight on Pierce Baker’s cross country running in a question and answer format. An example: What do you think you’ll take from your experience with CC? “…to keep going in the face of adversity. A wise marathon runner once said of CC: ‘This is the Marine’s sport of high school.’” Pierce then added, “It’s about life. By being stressed in a controlled environment, it helps people to do better with everyday problems faced in life.”
Then we find out via Annie Tohill that Seton’s Sub Club won a national championship. This club has nothing to do with sandwiches – it’s a science club that builds remote controlled submarines. A high school and junior high team both competed in the regional and national competition. They won the regional At nationals the high school team took second in the obstacle course competition while the junior high team won the “Cap the Well” competition which involved capping a 2” PVC pipe and cleaning up the oil slick which was represented by 10 plastic golf balls. The two teams came home with lots of trophies.
Grace Remington then tells about a new activity at Seton: The Seton Majorettes. There are eight girls in the group and their first performance was at the St. Andrew’s Parish 2011 Spring Carnival last school year and then they performed at the Seton Parents’ PRO meeting in June and at the opening assembly for this school year Their skills have been praised. The majorettes are going to be twirling batons and/or waving flags in conjunction with Seton’s drum line at parades and other exhibitions.
Next we are introduced to the six new teachers described as a math whiz teaching grammar (Mr. Erwin); a prison worker handling German (Mrs. McCaa); a missionary teaching English (Miss Faur); an ex-Naval engineer teaching science (Mr. Hoffman); an active member of the Legion of Mary teaching art history (Mrs. Holmes) and a Pittsburgh native who joined the faculty just a week before school started (Mrs. Ciskanik).
How do Seton students feel when their older siblings head off to college? Sarah Blanchard reports that there is a wide range of reactions – from not being affected at all to weeping for 19 straight days.
We learn that the Seton girls had to come in before school to make sure that their skirts met the new standards in an article by Mary-Margaret Harrill.
A whole page is dedicated to seniors helping sevies. Chris Baker and Thomas Aveni tell of the Big Brother-Little Brother and Big Sister-Little Sister program which has already included giving the 7th graders Back to School Bags at the Pizza/Pepsi/Polaroid Party. Then Thomas also gives sound backpack advice: Don’t overload; Roller backpacks are no good; Make sure your backpack is zippered; Nuggetting is not cool. (That’s turning a backpack inside out.)
Thomas seems to be taking over the paper as the next page begins with his article entitled “Answering the Call” a tribute to the firefighters of 9-ll. And Chris Baker finishes the page with his discussion of the success of Pro-Life Flash Mobs.
The back page has 11 colored photos of the seniors work and fun involved in loading up medical supplies and other goods bound for Haiti.
This first issue is a great blend of the traditional and the new. I read the paper straight through and found all of it interesting. We’ll be trying to keep you up-to-date on happenings at Seton. And remember you can go to seton-school.org for more info. Also sports results can be found at maxpreps (Seton is in Division II of the VISAA and the Delaney Athletic Conference) and state rankings at virginia independent schools athletic association.
Today, October 7th , on the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, Seton students and faculty will be making their consecration to the Sacred Heart: To Jesus through Mary. That must mean that the Enthronement Dance is not far off.
Jezu, ufam Tobie.
Thus, the 1st shall be last & the last shall be 1st.
Thus, the First Shall Be Last, and the Last Shall Be First
In one of the first years that Seton had a volleyball team, one of our players on the court got upset during a game and said, “It isn’t fair!” A teammate turned to her and said, “Life isn’t fair.” A referee’s bad call, a hostile crowd’s interference, a piece of faulty equipment – any of these things can seem to make a game’s outcome unfair because maybe the better team doesn’t win. The various disappointments in sports can be a microcosm to the greater disappointments that we face in life. We live through the agonies of sports and of the rest of life tranquilly because we know that this world is transitory and there is a greater good beyond these disappointments.
But then we read the Gospels and it seems that the Kingdom of God isn’t fair either. The title of this post is the conclusion reached after the parable of the laborers hired to work in the Master’s vineyard. Some of the workers were hired early, some later and some much later, yet at the end of the day they all received the same wage.
And this isn’t the only parable or actual happening in the Gospels that rub against our sense of justice. There is the parable of the prodigal son who seems to make out better in the end than his faithful, hardworking brother. There is the story of Mary who rests at the feet of Jesus while Martha works her fingers to the bone and seems to have a reason to complain about her sister. All three of our examples involve work that seems to be unappreciated by Our Lord.
In The Merchant of Venice Portia tells Shylock, “Consider this: That in the course of justice, none of us should see salvation.”
The Kingdom of God, then, is not ultimately about justice. It must mean that there is a greater good than justice that is the essence of eternity and the acquiring of this greater good is not ultimately a matter of our own labor.
In the magazine Magnificat there was a guided Lectio Divina of the parable of the workers in the vineyard. In considering the conclusion, “Thus, the last shall be first and first shall be last”, St. Prosper, a disciple of St. Augustine, was quoted: “The same reward was given to all the laborers in order that those who had sweated with much labor, without receiving more than the last, might understand that they had received a gift of grace, not a reward of work.”
Obviously, the Gospels and St. Prosper are not saying that our work is unimportant. Some notable heretics have gone off the deep end there before, and we shall not follow them. The Master returned time and again to call laborers into the vineyard, if they had chosen not to heed the call or not to work when they arrived, then they would not have been following the Master’s will. I also think that we can look too much at the end of the story and think that the early arriving workers had no advantage, and in fact had the disadvantage of extra work for no extra pay compared to those who came late. But the ones who were idle for a long part of the day had to carry the worry of perhaps not having any money to buy food for supper for themselves and their families. They carried a burden much heavier than toiling in the heat of the sun. The early arrivers had a security from the start of their labor – they knew exactly what was promised them, what was required of them and knew the Master to be true to his word. They had a security that the late arrivals lacked for at least part of the day.
The Prodigal, St. Martha and the early arriving laborers all grumbled about their work and/or the lack of work of others. As this month, which has Labor Day in its beginnings, comes to an end, let us give special thanks to the Master for the work He has given us in the Vineyard and the security that it affords knowing that it is His Vineyard in which we work and His grace that is the reward beyond what justice could ever provide.
Jezu, ufam Tobie.
THE LAST LECTURE
THE LAST LECTURE
In the current Seton schedule there is nothing more dreaded than “Wednesday without Assembly”. School gets out at 3:00 on Wednesday to accommodate for the monthly Holy Hour and any assemblies that there are. Many times mid-week there is an assembly which means that classes come out about the same length as Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. (Mondays are always short classes because of Mass at All Saints.) But when there is neither Holy Hour nor assembly, then Wednesday classes are the longest of the week. Each is longer only by a few minutes, but for some reason they seem eternally long.
Partially in response to make “Wednesdays without Assembly” most rare, one of the newer teachers, Mr. See, a graduate of Steubenville, proposed that teachers give what he called “their last lecture”. It’s a great idea; here’s what it means.
If a teacher was only going to be able to give one more lecture in his life, what would that lecture be? Each teacher at Seton was asked to think about his or her answer to that question and to prepare such a lecture. Then throughout the school year, some teachers would be given the chance to give that very lecture for a Wednesday assembly. I think the question of one’s last lecture is good for every mother and father to think about. Really, it’s a good question for all of us to give some thought to.
We have inspiring Seton-examples. First, our Patroness: Mother Seton’s dying words were only five words, but they were a tremendous lecture, an admonition in which one could see the beauty of this convert’s heart. “Be children of the Church,” she said. Within those five words we find docility, lowliness and faithfulness. We see that Mother Seton was teaching all her nuns as she left them that their true Mother is the Church, and she was grateful to be counted among Her children as she looked at Holy Mother Church’s Bridegroom from her death bed.
We have the example of Colonel Pennefather when he found out that the cancer he had gave him only a short time to live. One of his first visitors after he did find out was Father Vander Woude who told him to “use it”, by which he meant that Colonel P should take this opportunity given him to make an impact on those he would see in his dying days. Colonel P particularized Father VW’s advice by teaching “Trustful Surrender to Divine Providence” and “Divine Mercy” throughout his final days to a steady stream of visitors, young and old.
I think of Mrs. Jones whose birthday is today as I write. Her final lecture was one of fearlessness because she knew dying was not about counting up her good works in life, but about the mercy of her Savior. She was asked by Father Hudgins if she was afraid to die. She said that she was not because she knew that one drop of Jesus’ blood was enough to prepare her for heaven. And in God’s good Providence, Father Hudgins was able to be at her bedside to give her a single drop of the Precious Blood as her Holy Viaticum.
Mrs. Aker’s final lecture to all was a paean of joy within the suffering she was undergoing. The words of Psalm 90 were ones that she quoted, “Fill us at daybreak with your love, that all our days we may sing for joy.”
Then there is the wordless lecture that Mr. Vander Woude gave to us three years ago on September 8th. What wisdom and what strength we learn from the action that says, “I consider myself the least” so that Mr. VW was ready to give his life for his son without hesitation.
What strikes me about these examples is that each of their final lectures was not something contrived as death approached. Their final lectures were testaments of their lives.
One’s final lecture can only ring true, can only be worth listening to only if it is a product of the life that preceded it. That’s why it’s very good for us to consider the question of our final lecture.
May Mother Seton and her faithful sons and daughters of Seton School pray for us that this day and every day prepares us for our final lecture.
Jezu, ufam Tobie.
Seton Senior Seismologists
SETON SENIOR SEISMOLOGISTS
The following are some current Seton Seniors and some of their siblings initial thoughts when they felt the recent earthquake. Following each in italics are my initial thoughts about what they thought the earthquake was.
Denise Heisler: was at Bristow Run Elementary School, standing next to an outdoor air conditioning unit, and she thought something had gone wrong with it. This is interesting because Maryan Vander Woude was inside her Nokesville home and her first thought was also that something was wrong with their AC. I worry that if these two ever have AC troubles they may now sit paralyzed with fear thinking it is the longest lasting earthquake in history.
John Loth: was at the school student leadership conference. He saw things shaking and thought he was having a dizzy spell until James Mosiman said it was an earthquake. Which of these two has the greater leadership potential in the event of a natural disaster: John Loth, who will calmly sit down and wait out what he thinks is some temporary personal physiological problem, or James Mosiman, who will calmly announce what the calamity really is, terrifying everyone?
Mary Kate Rivenburg’s: parents who work in DC thought it was another 9-11 type attack. She was inside working at Old Navy but thought it was the wind. As the old saying goes: like parents, like daughter. Jihadist bombs and a good stiff wind are like two peas in a pod. Also, Mary Kate, you might have had “hurricane” on the brain with Irene on the way. Could it happen that terrorists will target Old Navy mistaking it for a military outpost?
Pat Hilleary: was trimming hedges and didn't notice anything. Either Pat has an amazing ability to concentrate on the task at hand and block out even earth shaking disturbances, or his electric shears are due for their 30,000 mile tune up. We might call his garden tool a “ hedge tremor”.
Abby Purnell: thought it was her manager shaking the bar at Foster's Grill. The real question here is whether the customers wanted to supersize their fries to go with the big shake each was enjoying.
Rebecca Germain’s: little sister thought it was a terrorist attack. We obviously need to bring back the duck and cover drills of the 50’s – appropriate for both acts of terrorism and acts of God.
Tom Horiuchi: was working on a farm just 30 miles from the epicenter. His friend said "Run". Tom said, "Where?" Tom’s very logical one word question asking for location, maybe should have been less logical and asked about manner. “How?” could easily have been answered with “Amok”. We know what kind of grain was being grown on the farm 30 miles from the epicenter: Quake-r-Oats.
Mary Duran: thought it was their washing machine. Similarly to the Hilleary’s hedge clippers, the Duran wash machine might be due for some new bearings. It’d be a shame to miss the drama of the next earthquake, passing it off as something so mundane as the spin cycle.
Mark LaVigne: thought his mom was mad at his little sister and was shaking a desk. Interesting discipline at the LaVigne homestead. Why is Mrs. LaVigne shaking a desk? Of course, her daughter is writing on the wall with permanent markers.
Matt Loth: thought it was his little sister jumping on the bed. His little sister said it was a tornado. Now did little sister Loth say it was a tornado while jumping on a bed? Either way, whenever the little Loth does jump on a bed she must get some serious hang time to create the equivalent sensation of a 5.7 earthquake when she lands. I might suggest getting her a sleep number bed which must have better shock absorbers than a spring mattress.
Kate Dobak’s: sister Elizabeth was in the bathroom putting on makeup and when she felt the shaking she said, "Someone is in here!" One question comes to mind: Where would the unknown person have been? I’d say go all natural from now on because it seems kind of creepy thinking someone might be watching you put on eye liner each morning.
Brian Kelly: was trying to turn on a hose and thought it was water pipes exploding underground. What Mrs. O’Leary’s cow was to Chicago, Brian Kelly was almost to Manassas. One little kick of a lantern; one little turn of a spigot…
Phil Wykowski: thought it was Quantico weapons practice. I think Phil has a career in the military. Col. Jones also first thought the earthquake was the detonating of munitions at the Marine Base. Semper Fi = unshakable faith.
Joe Moschetto: thought it was a cat under the table. Joe, do you mean like a lion or a tiger? Otherwise I’d say reduce the Little Friskies ration you’re giving your kitty.
Chris Baker: was discussing the movie Signs and for a split second thought it was aliens. We should be careful what we say – we never know what extraterrestrial might be listening. I try to say only good things about the Martians I know personally.
Thomas Aveni: thought it was his little sisters and brothers banging on the walls and he kept telling them to shut up. This is a wake up call to all of us to make better use of our elemental experiences. Also, Thomas, if your younger siblings do bang on the wall, you might try saying something like “Please quit that because you are making it difficult to appreciate the earthquake” which makes more sense than “Shut up!” and sounds a little more like the loving big brother that you are.
The first report of the earthquake I had was from Mrs. Carroll who said that some of the trophies at Seton were shaken from their shelves, fell to the ground and broke. I immediately asked about the condition of the dance trophy. Mrs. Carroll replied, “It survived!”
Jezu, ufam Tobie.
8! Part 2
8! Part 2
In the classroom the teacher described how Eddie had sat quietly in his seat for about an hour; suddenly he began parading back and forth in the aisle, swearing like a longshoreman and throwing movable objects on the floor, finally pitching an inkwell, which landed accurately on a plaster bust of Cicero.
Replacing Eddie in his seat, Father Flanagan apologized: “It was my fault…I never told him he mustn’t throw inkwells. The laws of Boys Town will, of course, be enforced with him as with all the rest of us. But he has to learn them first. We must never forget that Eddie is a good boy.”
“Like hell I am!” screamed Eddie.
He seemed made of stone, making no friends among the boys or teachers, least of all with Father Flanagan, for whom he reserved his supreme insult, “a damned praying Christian.” Sullenly he stood aloof in gym and on the fields: “Kid stuff!” Neither choir nor band could stir him; the farm bored him. He tore a book apart with his bare hands and during prayers he would mew like a cat.
In the first six months not once a laugh, nor a tear. Soon the question was whether Father had met his match.
“Does the little guy learn anything?” he asked the sisters.
“Somehow he is getting his A B Cs. In fact, he’s learning more than he lets on. But he’s just eaten up with hate!”
One night an older boy reported that Eddie was groaning in his sleep. Walking into the dormitory, Father stood beside the bed, touched the flushed face and felt the warm sweat of fever. “Just a sick little boy. It is shameful and foolish of me to lose hope. How can a little boy be bad when he is so soon from God?” he thought.
Through dark and gusty grounds the priest walked that October night, his grieving face set against the wind. It came to him then how real fathers must feel toward little sons. Sometimes they love so much that they spoil them. Eddie had been spoiled, all right, but not that way. “I’ll have to throw away the book of rules. I’m going to try spoiling the little devil – with love!”
In the infirmary Eddie snarled at the doctors, but when they accused him of being afraid he swallowed the medicine without a grimace; he walked into the darkness of the X-ray chamber with the air of a condemned man unbroken as he marked to the chair.
Well, again, he became more silent than ever. An apathy settled upon him just when Father was giving him more attention than he had ever given anyone else. Boys and teachers began to watch the new strategy as if it were a contest; a sporting event, and the home team was Father Flanagan.
Upon these months Father looked back with a shudder, especially at the scores of B-pictures they sat through, all double features. It is still a medical wonder that Eddie did not get ulcers from hot dogs and hamburgers, nut and chocolate bars, peanut brittle, ice cream, cokes and tonics. Inside his puny body there lay some cavernous area capable of infinite absorption.
Yet never once did Eddie say that anything was fun or sweet or refreshing, never a remark came unprompted; all answers briefly severe. He would trudge stolidly down to the lake, but no grunt of excitement came when he landed a trout. After each private excursion, he would leave Father with the same overbearing smile.
Only once did they come closer. That was on a street crossing in Omaha when Eddie was looking in the wrong direction and a truck tore around a corner; Father yanked him out of harm’s way. For one instant a light of gratitude flickered in the startled brown eyes, then the lashes fell again; he said nothing.
Stalemate! Even to the man of faith it began to seem that here was an inherent vileness beyond his reach. Hope had fallen to the lowest possible point when one soft spring morning Eddie boldly appeared in the office, announcing that he wanted to have it out with Father. This time the brown eyes were glowing with indignation.
“You’ve been trying to get around me, but now I’m wise to you. If you was on the level, I might have been a sucker at that. I almost fell for your line. But last night I got to thinking t over, and I sees the joker in the whole thing…”
Thee was something terribly earnest and manful in Eddie now; this was not insolence but despair. With a stb of hope the priest noticed for the first time a quiver on the twisted lips.
“Father Flanagn, you’re a phony!”
“You better prove that, Eddie – or shut up!”
“Okay! I just kicked a sister in the shins. Well? Now what do you say?”
“I still say you are a good boy.”
“What did I tell you? You keep on saying that lie, and you know it’s a lie, it can’t be true – doesn’t that prove you’re a phony?”
Dear Father in heaven, this is honest logic! How can I answer it? How defend my faith in him – and in You? Because it’s now or never with Eddie – God give me the grace to say the right thing.
Father cleared his throat. “Eddie, you’re smart enough to know when a thing is really proved. What is a good boy? A good boy is an obedient boy. Right?”
“Yeah!”
“Does what his teachers tell him to do?”
“You bet!”
“Well, that’s all you’ve ever done, Eddie. The only trouble with you is that you had the wrong teachers – wharf toughs and corner bums – but you have certainly obeyed them; you’ve done every last wrong and rotten thing they taught you to do. If you could only obey the good teachers here in the same way, you’d be just fine!”
Those simple words of unarguable truth were like an exorcism, driving out devils from the room and cleansing the air. At first the tiny human enigma looked dumfounded. Then came a glisten of sheer downright relief in his eyes, and he began to creep around the side of the sunlit desk. And with the very same relief Father Flanagan’s soul was crying; he held out his arms and the child climbed into them and laid a tearful face against his heart.
That was a long time ago. For ten years Eddie remained in Boys Town, until, well near the top of his class, he left to join the Marines. On blood-smeared beaches he won three promotions.
“His chest,” boasted Father Flanagan, “is covered with medals. Nothing strange that that, though; no wonder he has courage. But God be praised for something else; he has the love of the men in his outfit – brother to the whole bunch he is – an upstanding Christian character. And still the toughest kid I ever knew!”
Jezu, ufam Tobie.
8!
8! Here is a remarkable story taken from the book Father Flanagan of Boys Town by Fulton & Will Oursler One winter night a long-distance phone call came to Boys Town. “Father Flanagan? This is Sheriff Hosey from Virginia. Got any room for another boy – immediately?” “Where is he now?” “In jail. He’s a desperate character – robbed a bank, held up three stores with a revolver…” “How old is he? “Eight and a half!” “He’s what?” “Don’t let his age fool you. He’s all I said he was and more. Will you take him off our hands?” “If I can’t manage an 8½ year old child by this time, I ought to quit. Bring him out.” Three days later, Sheriff Hosey and his wife set down their prisoner in Father’s office. He was no higher than the desk; frowzy hair of chocolate brown dangled over the pinched and freckled face. From one side of his mouth a smoldering cigarette drooped at a theatrical angle. “Don’t mind the smoking. We had to bribe him with cigarettes to behave himself.” Meanwhile the wife laid a long envelope on the desk. “There’s a complete report. This good-for-nothing criminal is not worth helping – it’s my opinion he ain’t even human.” Father thought that never had he seen such a mixture of the comical and the utterly squalid and tragic. But he could not foresee that during the next year all Boys Town would be plagued with the same godless mixture of belly laugh and heartbreak. The priest turned on the desk lamp and began to read. It seemed that people had forgotten the boy’s last name; he was just Eddie. Born in a slum, he had lost father and mother in a flu epidemic before he was four. In water-front flats he was shunted from one family to another, living like a hungry and desperate animal. Hardship had sharpened his cunning and his will. It was literally true that at the age of eight he became the boss of a gang of boys, some nearly twice his age. He dominated them, as older toughs of the neighborhood taught him to do; he browbeat them into petty crimes which he planned in logical detail. But about six months before the law caught up with Eddie, his rule was challenged by a new member of the gang: “You never do anything yourself. You’re no leader.” “I’ll show you. I’ll do something you wouldn’t dare…I’m going to rob a bank.” When most of the clerks were away at lunch, Eddie lowered himself through a window, entered unseen, and crossed to an unattended slot of the cashier cage. So small that he had to chin himself up, he then seized a packet of green bills, and hid them in his jacket. With complete sang-froid he walked into the street to divide $200 among his comrades. But the exploit was a flop, the bank concealed the theft, and there were no headlines. “You’re only cracking your jaw,” the gang jeered. “You found that dough somewhere.” For several days Eddie vanished. Some vicious oldster had sold him a Colt revolver and stuffed his pockets with bullets; for two days Eddie stayed in the fields beyond town, practicing marksmanship. This time the local front pages were full of him. Slouching into a restaurant at an empty hour, he aimed his gun at the terrified counterman while his other palm received a day’s take from the cash register. Next he dragged a cabbage of bills from the pants pocket of a shivering tailor. His third call was on an old lady who kept a candy store. “Put down that thing,” the grandmother cried, “before you hurt yourself!” She smacked the gun out of his hand and grabbed him by the hair. He might have killed her, but her screams brought policemen. Putting aside the manuscript, Father looked musingly at the villain of the piece. From this night on the past must be a closed book; the idea was to forget it and start over. But certain things were already clear. This was not a villain but a victim. Born under another roof, Eddie could have been another kind of boy, knowing the sweetness of home, birthday candles, Christmas parcels, mother’s tender vigilance – yes, and the strong, wise counsel of a father’s pride. Something else showed in the report: Eddie had resourcefulness and a realistic brain; one must respect his intelligence and appeal to it. “No matter what he says or does,” Father resolved, “I’ll never give up until I’ve won him over.” As Father watched, the child produced a small piece of white paper and a sack of Bull Durham. One-hand-cowboy fashion, he deliberately rolled his own cigarette and, having lighted it, thumbnail to match, he blew a plume of smoke billowing across the desk. Then long eyelashes lifted for a flash, to see how the priest was taking the exhibition; Father Flanagan’s first sight of those bright brown eyes. “Eddie, you are welcome here. The whole place is run by the fellows, you know. Boy mayor. Boy city council. Boy chief of police.” “Where’s the jail?” “We haven’t a jail. You are going to take a bath and then get supper. Tomorrow you start in school. You and I can become real friends – it’s strictly up to you. I love you and someday I hope I can take you to my heart. I know you’re a good boy!” The reply came in a single shocking syllable. About eleven o’clock next morning Father was looking over the inventory of Eddie’s bundle – a few odds and ends of shirts, unmatching socks, a fresh pair of drawers and a white rabbit’s foot – when the door to the office opened and the new pupil swaggered in. His hair had been cut and neatly combed and he was clean. With an air of great unconcern he tossed on the desk a note from one of the teachers: Dear Father Flanagan: We have heard you say a thousand times that there is no such thing as a bad boy. Would you mind telling me what you call this one? To be continued on the 27th. Jezu, ufam Tobie.