More on "Mount Browne" > Hi Jean. > Just a short message,thanking you for your email > with all the information,some of which will prove very > useful when we get around to using it. > You may be interested to know we have located > "Mount Browne";My cousin's husband did a "yahoo" search > and got several "hits" which we had not found.The house > was owned by the "Sligo Family"from Westport i Ireland. > It was originally named "Oakdene"and George Sligo the > third Marquis of Sligo renamed it after the original > "Mount Browne"a house in Ireland which burnt down.It is > located south of London,England,near the Cathedral City > of Guildford;it is now the Headquaters of the Surrey > Police[The County].They have developed the whole property > and have enlarged the original house too. > It was very good to find out about it at last and > more so the connection to the Sligo Family which I found > very interesting.Thankyou again for your help. > kind regards Jane Williams.

This might help BROWNE researchers: > Please forgive this intrusion,explaination;- > I have,together with my cousin in Queensland. > been researching our Family Tree:we have found many > connections in Ireland;ancestors from the Herbert > family of Muckross,Co Kerry and Wicklow,Co Kildare, > also Armagh,on my Mother's side. > I have recently obtained possession of her > photograph album,[she died in 1974]in which there are > many'photos of beautiful places,houses and people > including herself.Most of them have nothing written > on the reverse so cannot be identified.There are, > however two pages containing faded sepia'photos of a > beautiful mansion like house,both externally and > internally;the dinning room,drawing room etc are > beautifully furnished.There also;photos of my Mother > and son of a family,a man and woman very smartly > dressed and a boy of about 10 years old,plus a baby. > On the reverse side of all these my mother has written > "MOUNT BROWNE'we did a search on the internet which > came up with two results,one was titled"The British > Racing Centre-Mount Browne",the otgher gave us details > of Landowners Names in Galway and your email address, > hence this email. > This was obviously an inportant part of my > Mother"s life;she was born 1898 and we estimate these > photos were taken in the 1920s.I would very much like > to find out where this house is,who owned it then,who > lived there,and maybe what it is used for today?,it > may still be privately owned or Nationally owned. > When I was a child,just after World War11, > I remember my mother taking me to visit Lady Sligo > in London,she was my mother's friend,there may even > be some connection here. > If there is anything you can tell me about > this I will be eternally grateful,it is a missing in > piecing my Mother's life together,she was ill for many > years and I grew up knowing nothing of her younger life; > her name wasPhyllis Irene Martin. > Thankyou in anticipation. > J Williams.

19th century photographers listed in "Irish Roots" periodical. 1. Capt. L. M. Browne, amateur, circa 1900, no address given.. 2. Charles R. Browne, location Mayo, possibly an amateur, circa 1890. 3. Henry D. Browne, address Kingstown, 1860-80, commercial. 4. Robert Browne, address Dublin, amateur circa 1900.

Perhaps you can locate copies of these recently published books (2001) if the subject interests you: 1. Father Browne's photographs taken over his lifetime numbered 42,000 in all, most, but not all, taken in Ireland in a 60-year period ending in 1957; they form a very important Irish image archive, particularly those regarding Dublin and the "Titanic." The title of one well-loved book was published in the United States as the "Last Days of Titanic." Father Browne disembarked the ship before it sank. A more recent companion volume is "Father Browne's Ships and Shipping," the latter photographs ploughed from the seven seas with maritime photos other than those connected with the ill-fated "Titanic." I believe that the editor of both books is E. E. O'Donnell, "Wolfhound" press. Many of Fr. Browne's photographs appear in previously-published books and magazines. 2. "A Century in Focus, Photography and Photographers in the North of Ireland 1839-1939," by W. A. Maguire, "Blackstaff Press." This most interesting book is finely illustrated with early photographs of men and women of the nine Ulster counties and the world in which they lived.

Sue, Not sure of what you mean by "of the Neal," (See BROWNE query below), but check for biographies, autobiographies via your genealogy and public library and also do a Google Search. PERSI (PERiodical Resource Index) CD (and earlier set of books in your genealogy library) might be a very good resource. PERSI is an index of publications citing previously-published, in-depth articles on a wide variety of subjects, locations, and families. Once you have located articles of interest via the PERSI, you then contact the Allen Co. Library, Ft. Wayne, IN, and request reprints of same for a small charge. (You MAY be able to access the PERSI index via a subscription to Ancestry.com, as well, check and see). There are at least two books in the National Library of Ireland (Dublin) regarding the Browne surname: J. More, "A Tale Of Two Houses," pub. Shrewsbury in 1978, and "Westport House and the Brownes," by D. Browne, pub. 1981. Well-to-do Brownes who owned property in Co. Mayo circa 1876 included: Andrew Browne, Mount Hazel, Co. Galway (nearly 3,000 acres); Rev. Dominick Browne, 37, Dawson-st. Dublin, owned 365 acres; Dominick A. Browne, address Breaghway House, Castlebar, Co, Mayo, owned more than. 1500 acres; Dodwell F. Browne, who lived in Ceylon, owned 700 plus acres; Dominick E. Browne, address Club House, Galway, owned over 730 acres, George Browne, address 33, Palace Gardensterrace, Kensington, London, W., and Brownestown, Ballinrobe, owned approximately 2,800 acres; Hans S. H. Browne, of Brownehall, Balla, Co. Mayo, owned more than 2,300 acres; J. D. H. Browne, of 39 Rutland-gate, London, owned more than 3,600 acres; Miss L. M. Browne, of Brownehall, Co. Mayo owned 240 acres; Peter D. Browne, of Glencorrib, Cong, owned only 1 acre, but it was worth 45 pounds. More contemporary, there was a Dr. Michael Browne, Bishop of Galway circa 1950s. A Dr. Noel Browne (minister of Health) all but eradicated tuberculosis in the circa 1940s/50s. Jean ----- Original Message ----- From: "Sue Palmer~Elliott" <palliott@quik.com> To: <IrelandGenWeb-L@rootsweb.com> Sent: Friday, July 26, 2002 8:55 PM Subject: [IGW] Brownes of the Neale County Mayo > Does anyone have information on Henry Browne of the Brownes of the Neale? He is listed as the 3rd son of Sir John Browne. There is much information on the older sons but not on Henry. He was my gggggrandfather b. about 1730-1770. Henry had a daughter, Sophia, who married Lt. John Higgs of the Royal Navy in 1802. Sophia Browne Higgs died before 1851 in Dublin...but I need dates of her birth or death. Sophia and John had 2 sons, John (my gggrandfather, who came to America) and Samuel Henry Browne Higgs, who remained in Ireland. I have found some information about Samuel, who died in 1868 in Dublin, where his name was spelled Hicks in some records. Samuel married 1. Christian Hicks and later 2. Anna Maria Caffry. He and Anna had a daughter, Rebecca, who married Joseph J. Goggins and they were living in Dublin when Anna died in 1899 at their home. > Samuel lived on King's Street and was listed as a merchant and/or a Gentleman on various records. > Does anyone have any information on any of these people? Cemetery records...anything? > I would appreciate any assistance. Please help if you can. > > Slan, > Sue Palmer~Elliott

Does anyone have information on Henry Browne of the Brownes of the Neale? He is listed as the 3rd son of Sir John Browne. There is much information on the older sons but not on Henry. He was my gggggrandfather b. about 1730-1770. Henry had a daughter, Sophia, who married Lt. John Higgs of the Royal Navy in 1802. Sophia Browne Higgs died before 1851 in Dublin...but I need dates of her birth or death. Sophia and John had 2 sons, John (my gggrandfather, who came to America) and Samuel Henry Browne Higgs, who remained in Ireland. I have found some information about Samuel, who died in 1868 in Dublin, where his name was spelled Hicks in some records. Samuel married 1. Christian Hicks and later 2. Anna Maria Caffry. He and Anna had a daughter, Rebecca, who married Joseph J. Goggins and they were living in Dublin when Anna died in 1899 at their home. Samuel lived on King's Street and was listed as a merchant and/or a Gentleman on various records. Does anyone have any information on any of these people? Cemetery records...anything? I would appreciate any assistance. Please help if you can. Slan, Sue Palmer~Elliott ô¿ô An Okie in Texas..... Still shaking the family tree and dodging the nuts after 20+ years! Can a first, second or third cousin, once removed, return? ==================================== Sue Palmer~Elliott Listmom & Webmaster ELLIOT & ELLIOTT Surname Lists Administrator ELLIOTT & ELLIOT Message Boards Visit the ELLIOT/ELLIOTT Most Wanted Web Site: http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com/~theelliottsummit/ The Elliott Corner web site: http://www.mo.quik.com/palliott To unsubscribe: http://lists.rootsweb.com/index/surname/e/elliott.html

SONG Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair, The breath of young roses is fresh on the air, The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake -- Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. Oh, come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew -- I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you; The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake -- Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone, The coot to the water already hath flown; There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake -- Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. -- J. J. Callanan (1795-1828)

DEDICATION I speak with a proud tongue of the people who were And the people who are, The worthy of Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel, My kindred -- The people of the hills and the dark-haired passes My neighbours on the lift of the brae, In the lap of the valley. To them Slainthe! I speak of the old men, The wrinkle-rutted, Who dodder about foot-weary -- For their day is as the day that has been and is no more -- Who warm their feet by the fire, And recall memories of the times that are gone; Who kneel in the lamplight and pray For the peace that has been theirs -- And who beat one dry-veined hand against another Even in the sun -- For the coldness of death is on them. I speak of the old women Who danced to yesterday's fiddle And dance no longer. They sit in a quiet place and dream And see visions Of what is to come, Of their issue, Which has blossomed to manhood and womanhood -- And seeing thus They are happy For the day that was leaves no regrets, And peace is theirs, And perfection. I speak of the strong men Who shoulder their burdens in the hot day, Who stand on the market-place And bargain in loud voices, Showing their stock to the world. Straight the glance of their eyes -- Broad-shouldered, Supple. Under their feet the holms blossom, The harvest yields. And their path is of prosperity. I speak of the women, Strong-hipped, full-bosomed, Who drive the cattle to graze at dawn, Who milk the cows at dusk. Grace in their homes, And in the crowded ways Modest and seemly -- Mother of children! I speak of the children Of the many townlands, Blossoms of the Bogland, Flowers of the Valley, Who know not yesterday, nor to-morrow, And are happy, The pride of those who have begot them. And thus it is, Ever and always, In Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel -- Here, as elsewhere, The Weak, the Strong and the Blossoming -- And thus my kindred. To them Slainthe. -- Patrick MacGill (born 1890)

BIO: Richard Dunscombe Parker (c. 1805-81) was an Anglo-Irish gentleman farmer who lived at Landscape House, Sunday's Well, Cork. In common with many of his kind, he was also an avid sportsman. He was exceptional, however, in that he also painted birds. Influenced by the printed bird-books of Thomas Bewick, John Gould and the great ornithological artist John James Aububon, Parker produced a series of 170 large watercolor paintings of the birds of Ireland between about 1833 and 1868. Parker and his brothers were keen ornithologists as well as sportsmen, and corresponded with the eminent naturalists of the day, in particular William Thompson of Belfast, whose 4-volume "Natural History of Ireland" published about 1850, contains numerous references to Parker. Thompson rated Parker's bird-paintings as high as Gould's and Audubon's prints. Parker never married. The huge book of bird-paintings was passed to his niece Miss Eleanor Parker of Carrigrohane Lodge, Cork, who died ! in 1932. She bequeathed it to the Belfast Museum, now the Ulster Museum. It lay neglected in store until it was re-discovered by museum staff in 1976. On examination, the paintings appeared as fresh as the day they were painted, as they had been completely protected from the light for over a century. The discovery generated great excitement in the Museum, 170 paintings were shown to the public in a major exibition at the Ulster Museum in 1980. "The Birds of Ireland," a large book of 40 color reproductions, was published as a hand-bound limited edition by Blackstaff Press of Belfast in 1984. Splended as the color reproductions were, the sheer size and brillance of Parker's original watercolors was almost overpowering. Parker was also a very able painter of plants and landscape. His corncrake runs through tall grass between buttercup and red heather. While very rarely seen or heard, their call, resembles the grating of the teeth of a comb, is very distinct. His wheat! ear, in summer and winter plumage, stands in a moorland landscape with a lake. It is the earliest of the summer birds, usually making its appearance in the last weeks in March. The habitat of all his birds had been carefully studied. Parker's beautiful peregrine falcons were drawn full-face rather than in profile; peregrine falcons were always admired for their speed and docility, and in medieval times the peregrine was the falcon specially reserved for kings and nobles. -- Excerpts, "Ireland of the Welcomes," July-August 1984

BIO: John Tyndall was born in Leighlinbridge, Co. Carlow on 02 Aug 1820. During the course of his life, this very intelligent poet-scientist was to invent practical items such as a safe miners' lamp, a powerful lighthouse beacon and the first practical gas mask -- therefore being responsible for saving the lives of many thousands of miners, sailors and common labourers. In France, Pasteuration is called Tyndallization, for it was John Tyndall who apparently first discovered the process of killing bacteria in milk, Louis Pasteur merely passed along Tyndall's discovery to mankind. Per article in "Ireland of the Welcomes," Tyndall could be called a brillant but "invisible scientist" whose theories and accomplishments were often attributed to others. John Tyndall also described the action of the fungus penicillum on bacteria over a century before Sir Alexander Fleming re-discovered the antibotic. Tyndall was also a master mountaineer, and was the first person to climb several peaks in the Alps. He reached to within a few hundred feet of the top of the famed Matterhorn the year before Whymper succeeded in the difficult climb. Tyndall was directly descended from a group of Gloucestershire farmers who crossed the Irish Sea in the 17th century. His parents, although apparently well educated, were poor. His mother was disinherited for marrying against her father's wishes. His father was a sergeant in the Royal Irish Constabulary, and an Orangeman by inclination, although the senior Tyndall most certainly was not a religious bigot. He did, in fact, send his son John to school under the tutelage of a Catholic who can be best described as a hedge schoolmaster. It was a pay school, a luxury that John Tyndall senior could ill afford. Master Conwill was known over the entire countryside for his scholarship and teaching ability. He imparted to his students a basic foundation in English and mathematics as well as surveying, the latter being indispensable for young John whose interests were to lead him into the physical sciences. John studied under Conwill until his 17th birthday, a far older age tha! n most country lads. In retrospect, it seems that Tyndall was more than likely an assistant schoolmaster during his latter two years at Ballinbranagh schoolhouse. Tyndall joined the Ordnance Survey as a Civil Servant on 01 April 1839. For a short time he surveyed in Co Carlow close to his home, but in 1840 he was transferred to Youghal in Co. Cork. In 1842 he was transferred by the Ordnance Survey to Preston in England. He never returned to Ireland expect for short visits home. In Preston he joined the Chartist labour movement led by immigrants from Ireland. His articles in the "Liverpool Mercury" were outspoken and exposed the injustices to the lower working classes, Irish and English alike. Since the Civil Service could ill afford to be politicised by his strong position concerning labour he was fired and returned to Carlow to rethink his future. Since the Tyndalls were Quakers it should be no surprise that the brilliant young scholar joined the staff of Queenswood College, a progressive Quaker school in Hampshire, England. Here Tyndall and his closest friend, the chemist Edward Frankland, built the first practical science laboratory in England. In 1848 he left Queenwood to work on a Ph.D. at Marbury University in Germany, and completed a mathematical dissertation in only two years. While there he came under the influence of the German chemist Robert Bunsen who invented the famous Bunsen burner, even today a basic instrument of every chemistry laboratory. By June 1851, Tyndall had returned to England and made many influential scientific friends. He was nonetheless defeated in attempts to gain a lectureship at Cork and Galway Universities. Had he succeeded he might have spent the remainder of his life in his native land. As fate would have it he was chosen to present a lecture at the Royal Institute (The Royal ! Society). His lectureship was recommended by a committee of which Michael Faraday, the great electrical scientist, was a prominent member. Tyndall's outstanding lecture so impressed Faraday and others that he was shortly afterwards elected Professor of Natural Philosophy at the great Institute. Faraday and Tyndall were to remain admiring co-workers and friends for the rest of Faraday's life. When his friend died, John Tyndall succeeded him as Secretary of the Royal Institute. The rest of Tydall's life was spent managing and conducting experiments and writing first-class poetry. Importantly, John invented the first infra-red spectrophotometer. Excerpts, "Ireland of the Welcomes," July-August 1984

THE MAN UPRIGHT I once spent an evening in a village Where the people are all taken up with tillage, Or do some business in a small way Among themselves, and all the day Go crooked, doubled to half their size, Both working and loafing, with their eyes Stuck in the ground or in a board, For some of them tailor, and some of them hoard Pence in a till in their little shops, And some of them shoe-soles -- they get the tops Ready-made in England, and they die cobblers -- All bent up double, a village of hobblers And slouchers and squatters, whether they straggle Up and down, or bend to haggle Over a counter, or bend at a plough, Or to dig with a spade, or to milk a cow, Or to shove the goose-iron stiffly along The stuff on the sleeve-board, or lace the fong In the boot on the last, or to draw the wax-end Tight cross-ways -- and so to make or to mend What will soon be worn out by the crooked people. The only thing straight in the place was the steeple, I thought at first. I was wrong in that; For there past the window at which I sat Watching the crooked little men Go slouching, and with the gait of a hen An odd little woman go pattering past, And the cobbler crouching over his last In his window opposite, and next door The tailor squatting inside on the floor -- While I watched them, as I have said before, And thought that only the steeple was straight, There came a man of a different gait A man who neither slouched nor pattered, But planted his steps as if each step mattered; Yet walked down the middle of the street Not like a policeman on his beat, But like a man with nothing to do Except walk straight upright like me and you. -- Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916)

THE DYING GIRL >From a Munster vale they brought her, >From the pure and balmy air; An Ormond peasant's daughter, With blue eyes and golden hair. They brought her to the city And she faded slowly there -- Consumption has no pity For blue eyes and golden hair. When I saw her first reclining Her lips were mov'd in prayer, And the setting sun was shining On her loosen'd golden hair. When our kindly glances met her, Deadly brilliant was her eye; And she said that she was better, While we knew that she must die. She speaks of Munster valleys, The pattern, dance, and fair, And her thin hand feebly dallies With her scattered golden hair. When silently we listen'd To her breath with quiet care, Her eyes with wonder glisten'd, And she asked us, "What was there?" The poor thing smiled to ask it, And her pretty mouth laid bare, Like gems within a casket, A string of pearlets rare, We said that we were trying By the gushing of her blood And the time she took in sighing To know if she were good. Well, she smil'd and chatted gaily, Though we saw in mute despair The hectic brighter daily, And the death-dew on her hair. And oft her wasted fingers Beating time upon the bed: O'er some old tune she lingers, And she bows her golden head. At length the harp is broken; And the spirit in its strings, As the last decree is spoken, To its source exulting springs. Descending swiftly from the skies Her guardian angel came, He struck God's lightning from her eyes, And bore Him back the flame. Before the sun had risen Through the lark-loved morning air, Her young soul left its prison, Undefiled by sin or care. I stood beside the couch in tears Where pale and calm she slept, And though I've gazed on death for years, I blush not that I wept. I check'd with effort pity's sighs And left the matron there, To close the curtains of her eyes And bind her golden hair. -- Richard D'Alton Williams (1822-1862)

THROWING THE BEADS A mother at Shannon, waving to her son Setting out from North Kerry, flung A rosary beads out to the tarmac Suddenly as a lifebelt hurled from a pier. Don't forget to say your prayers in Boston. She saw the bright crucifix among skyscrapers, Shielding him from harm in streets out of serials, Comforting as a fat Irish cop in a gangster film Rattling his baton along a railing after dark. - Sean Dunne (1956-95), from "Sheltered Nest."

Derry's Seamus Heaney, born in 1939, reflects on old trades and changing times in his poem, "The Forge." All I know is a door into the dark. Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting; Inside, the hammered anvil's short-pitched ring, The unpredictable fantail of sparks Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water. The anvil must be somewhere in the centre, Horned as a unicorn, at one end square, Set there immovable: an altar Where he expends himself in shape and music. Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose, He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows; Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick To beat real iron out, to work the bellows. -- Seamus Heaney

Derry's contemporary poet, Seamus Heaney, describes the uneasy Anglo-Irish relationship in terms of a husband's feelings for his pregnant wife - ACT OF UNION Your back is a firm line of eastern coast And arms and legs are thrown Beyond your gradual hills. I caress The heaving province where our past has grown. I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder That you would neither cajole nor ignore. Conquest is a lie. I grow older Conceding your half-independent shore Within whose borders now my legacy Culminates inexorably. Ulster's tragic melodrama has continued to unfold, the great majority of the population, though still segregated by the sour dance of religion and history, has looked on aghast from opposing wings, hoping that peace can bring down the curtain, permanently, on a show which has long outrun any purpose it once had. -- "Irish Counties, " J. J. Lee

MEMORIES When sun goes down and moon appears Amid her starry glow The mind is apt to wander To things of long ago My memories are sunlit days Or blessed by gentle rain It's there I see those simple things I'll never see again. I see the nimble thatcher Light sweat upon his brow His rushes and his scollops No longer needed now His gentle presence now has passed Like last September's rain I miss him and those simple things I'll never see again. Oh how I miss the fireside With every cheek aglow When tales were told of fairies And things of long ago With leprechauns in every bush Along each leafy lane The beauty of those simple things I'll never see again. I still can see those families Of six or eight or ten Saving hay in meadows green By mountainside and glen The women rake as children laugh And gather every grain How precious were those simple things I'll never see again. The tiny school-house on the hill That's silent now and bare Where first I put my chalk to slate And mouthed childish prayer The master's stick was quick and mean And yet despite the pain I sometimes miss those simple things I'll never see again. I loved the country butter I loved the homemade bread The building of the pike of hay The prayers beside my bed For good or ill we've lost some things We'll nevermore regain That's why I love those simple things I'll never see again. When sun goes down and moon appears Amid her starry glow The mind is apt to wander to things of long ago And teardrops fall in memory Of things once thought mundane May God be with those simple things I'll never see again. -- Gerard Maguire (NY) (As I recall, Gerry's roots were in the Cavan/Leitrim area).

FATHER AND SON Only last week, walking the hushed fields Of our most lovely Meath, now thinned by November, I came to where the road from Laracor leads To the Boyne river -- that seemed more lake than river, Stretched in uneasy light and stript of reeds. And walking longside an old weir Of my people's, where nothing stirs -- only the shadowed Leaden flight of a heron up the lean air -- I went unmanly with grief, knowing how my father, Happy though captive in years, walked last with me there. Yes, happy in Meath with me for a day He walked, taking stock of herds hid in their own breathing; And naming colts, gusty as wind, once steered by his hand, Lightnings winked in the eyes that were half shy in greeting Old friends -- the wild blades, when he gallivanted the land. For that proud, wayward man now my heart breaks -- Breaks for that man whose mind was a secret eyrie, Whose kind hand was sole signet of his race, Who curbed me, scorned my green ways, yet increasingly loved me Till Death drew its grey blind down on his face. And yet I am pleased that even my reckless ways Are living shades of his rich calms and passions - Witnesses for him and for those faint namesakes With whom now he is one, under yew branches, Yes, one in a graven silence no bird breaks. -- F. R. Higgins (1896-1941)

Hello: I've just been given a gift which incorporates a Claddagh. I remember the history of why the first Claddagh was made but forget what all the symbols mean. Will someone kindly help me out? Celia wlteats@ptd.net

BIO: In all his years, Edward Harvey has never been able to resist the urge to trudge the shoreline and seek out whatever has been cast up; in fact, he is teased about his stoop from looking down at his feet for "treasures." Five generations ago his people were Cornish seafarers. In his schoolboy days, the early years of WWII, he was evacuated with his London school en mass to Westward Ho in North Devon. There was an infinite possibility to roam the shore towards Clovelly and glean whatever floated in from the many ships being sunk in the Western Approaches. The U-Boats were enjoying their early successes in torpedoeing whatever ships they sighted. He and friend Mike Newell would cut school to spend an hour or two searching the shoreline. Apparently their none-too-observant, but brilliant and extremely kind, Welsh math teacher, Mr. Thomas, never seemed to notice their absence and they would sneak back before the end of class. Despite all this they absorbed enough m! ath for Mike Newell to later navigate the Spitfires, Vampires and Meterors which he later flew in the RAF, and Edward Harvey served his years in the complexity of Airborne Radar. On that long expanse of beach they gathered all kinds of flotsam and jetsam, splintered wreckage, bits of aircraft. The most coveted of all prizes were the enormous bales of crude rubber, each weighing more than 100 pounds, from ships sunk in transit from Malaya (Malaysia). Each merited a bounty of 10 shillings from the Coastguard. That was ten weeks' pocket money! One find was a half-drowned dog whom they rescued and befriended. The truant beachcoming ended in 1943 and Mr. Harvey's parents moved house to North Foreland in Kent after the war where Edward amassed a sizeable collection of fossils, mostly sea urchins of superb quality. They were driven out of the chalk cliffs by stormy seas in winter. His mother found fine examples of golden amber that were made into a ring still worn by his sister. When beachcoming the gleaming beaches in the West of Ireland and the shores of Connemara, he found magnificently created seashells. He searched for specimens of intensely mauve tropical violet-snail of family Janthinidae, a pelagic and specialised creature which lives on the surface of the Atlantic Ocean supported by a tiny raft of bubbles. He discovered pudding stones, small pebbles within larger pebbles, and he made necklaces from Connemara green marble, red jasper (a form of red quartz), and white quartz, and looked for rare "floating stones." When he had two he would rub them together in darkness to see mysterious, brilliant internal flashes of light. He found a piece of very rare Beryl in Galway, a flash of palest green that caught his eye; this prize became the cabochon stone which he fashioned for setting into a ring. In the summer of 1940, on a holiday in Wales, he and a friend rigged a crude mast and sail on a two-seater canoe. They sailed out to sea to scour the secluded and inaccessible coves of Dinas Head where they found an airman's life-vest. Donning it for the return journey proved to be a stroke of fate, as the wind picked up and the canoe capsized and they were flung into the sea, to swim half a mile to shore. -- Excerpts, "Ireland of the Welcomes" July-Aug 2002

Nostalgic account by Neal Shine, former Editor of "The Detroit Free Press" to the birthplace of his mother in Carrick-on-Shannon to sprinkle her ashes on the River Shannon: "We brought her through the town one last time...down the narrow streets of her childhood, past places remembered, places cherished, past the shops where merchants were just opening their doors and rolling back the shutters, arranging their wares on cramped sidewalks freshly swept. Shop names, such as Costello, Duignan, Flynn, Doherty. The Commerce of Carrick-on-Shannon being put in place for another day. Past by the Bush Hotel where, as a little girl, she wished more than anything else to be able to climb to its second floor and see through its high windows the wonders of Carrick arrayed before her. And past Dr. Bradshaw's still substantial house where at 14 years, she had gone to live and work as a serving girl. Where she decided that the world held more promise for her than this. We took her past the heavy oak doors of St. Mary's Church where, on a cold January day 80 years ago, she was washed in the waters of Baptism, where she was Confirmed and had made her First ! Communion. Where her name is inscribed in Latin in the strong hand of the Parish Priest -- "Maria Helena Conlon," (Mary Ellen Conlon) -- it was the Church where she had stopped on the way to the station one morning in 1927. The day she was taking the first uncertain steps to a new life in America. A frightened 18-year-old come to ask God not to forsake her in the strange new land and to see her safely across the ocean to this great new adventure. Now she was back again, back for the last time, because we had promised her that when she died, we would take her Ashes back to the West of Ireland town where she had been born and spread them along the Banks of the River where she had played as a child. We were her Sons, she was our Mother. It was Spring and there was a promise to be kept. Part of her Ashes were buried with my father in Mt. Oliver Cemetery, the rest would drift off on a soft breeze over the dark waters of the Shannon as free as her Spirit when she lived. When we were children she told us some little bit of her never left that peaceful place. That it would always be there, it was why she asked us to take her back. With my brothers, Jim and Bill and our wives, we walked to the Quayside in the shadow of the Old Stone Bridge near the Warehouse in which her father had supervised the unloading and distribution in Carrick of the barrels of Guinness Stout. Near the opposite bank where, as the oldest child, she was permitted to row the boat while her father fished, two swans moved gracefully through tall rushes. At the water's edge, we said the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary. The first Prayers she had learned, the first Prayers she taught us. A large black dog that had followed us, sat quietly while we prayed. We sprinkled the Ashes at the river's edge, no stone or monument to mark the place, just the timeless river moving on to the Sea, 135 miles away." The words of Irish Poet William Allingham... "Four ducks on a pond A grass bank beyond A blue sky of spring White birds on the wing What a little thing To remember for years To remember with tears!" -- Excerpt, "The Leitrim Guardian," 1997