Hey, fellow potato lover! lol The story's great!
I just have one correction: I noticed you said "Ellis" Island. That wasn't around until the late 1800s or early 1900s. I believe it was called Staten Island. Hope that helps.
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"I wan' you to remember this, Murchadh, anytime you get lonely. You e'er heard this saying? I'll tell you: There is hope in the ocean, not in the grave. I'm sending you across the ocean because somewhere there is hope, and Ireland right now, is like the grave."
Among the rats and the sickness, there was never a point in the exploit on that Coffin Ship when we stopped our lonley cries for home, and our wretches from sea-sickness to look through the leaking cracks of our lowest-class, bottom floored cell to admire the icy waves.
I gave him half my portions when they were given, hoping to break his silence, and maybe glimpse for myself his detatchment.
But as at home, througout his entire eight mysterious years, he still had never uttered a word. Never once.
"Do you have a way there?" he asked feverently.
I expected perhaphs a spark in Proinsias's eye, but there was nothing more than the usual glazed stare.
"S'cuse me sir," I interupted, curiosity getting the better of me, "but what is a tenement?"
"It seems so," I said replied, remembering the black potatoes at home. "We were sure it would pass this harvest season. Is there anything to eat here?"
When I returned that night, Gaire was not yet home, but I layed down on the cold ground of the heatless tenement and fell into fitful sleep, the day having been full of many emotions.
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