The Road To Lismore Lay Along A Fair Valley; The Town Itself Was A
Pleasant Surprise.
It looked as peaceful and peaceable as possible when
I passed through it; there was neither sight nor sound to reveal the
present state of things among the people.
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.
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