Brown fields where nothing will be planted; passed the
small donkeys with their big loads; passed green meadows on a small
scale; in places here and there, passed the houses, dark, damp and
unwholesome, where these people live.
After we had rumbled on for some miles, enjoying blinks of cold
sunshine, enduring heavy scudding showers, the landscape began to soften
considerably. The grass grew green instead of olive, and trees clustered
along the road. Umbrageous sycamores, claiming kindred with our maples,
began to stand along the road singly and in clusters. We were still in a
valley bounded by mountains, but the hill-sides waved with dark green
and light green foliage, where the fir stretched upward tall plumes and
the larch shook downward tasseled streamers. The green of the fields
became greener and richer, the dark sterile moss-covered mountains
retreated and frowned at us from the distance; we were leaving the
hungry hills of north Leitrim for the pleasant valleys that lie smiling
around Sligo.
The trees grew larger, the sycamores massed together in their full
leafiness, bringing visions of a sugar bush in the time of leaves; they
were mingled with the delicious green of the newly-leaved beech. The
round-headed chestnuts, with their clustered leaves, were covered with
tall spikes of blossom like the tapers on an overgrown Christmas tree.
The ash and oak are shaking out their leaves tardily; the orchards are
white with the bridal bloom of May.
