From the grand castle of
Lismore the road wound along between low range walls, ivy-covered and
moss-grown, that fenced in extensive woods, clothing bold hills and deep
valleys with wild verdure. The wildness of these woods and their thick
growth of underbrush reminded me of far off Canadian forests.
We overtook a decent-looking country woman, who was toiling along the
road with a big basket; the car man took her up; she seemed an old
acquaintance. On one side of the road below the range wall a shallow
little river ran brawling among the stones. I tried to find out its name
from the woman with the basket but she could only tell its name in
Irish, a very long name, and not to be got hold of hastily. "Her son was
in America - God bless it for a home for the homeless! - and he had that
day sent her L120, which she was carrying home in the bosom of her
dress." "She had good boys who neither meddled with tobacco or drink,
and not many mothers could say that for their sons." "Her boys were as
good boys to their father and mother as ever wore shoes, thoughtful and
quiet they were." "They had good learning and did not need to work as
laborers." I asked her why she did not go out to America. "Ould trees
don't take kindly to transplanting," she said, "I will see the hills I
have looked at all my life around me as long as I see anything. I want
the green grass that covers all my people to cover me at last."
At a turn in the road the woman left us to climb a steep _boreen_
that led to her home among the hills, with her heavy basket and her
son's love gift of L120 in her bosom, and I sat in the car dreamily
looking at the wooded hills and wondered how dear a hilly country is to
its inhabitants.
The most beautiful thing which I saw in Killarney was the feeling of
proprietorship and kinship that all the people felt in and for the
mountains and lakes. It takes a lifetime to get thoroughly acquainted
with the eternal hills. They have ways of their own that they only
display upon long acquaintance. You can see shadowy hands draw on the
misty night cap or fold round massive shoulders the billowy gray drapery
or inky cloak when passing rain squall or mountain tempest is brewing.
They wrinkle their brows and draw near with austere familiarity; they
retreat and let the sunshine and shadows play hide-and-seek round them,
or lift their bald heads in still summer sunshine with calm joyfulness.
The dwellers among them learn to love them through all their varying
moods.
