An ambitious little peasant clung
on behind with his hands, his little bare feet thudding on the smooth
road and over the loose layer of sharp stones that lay edge upwards in
places. He thought he was taking a ride. We passed small fields of
reclaimed bog, where ragged men were planting potatoes in narrow ridges.
We passed the 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.
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