All this time
we were driving along a road with bare mountains, and tree-covered
mountains rising on every hand. It reminded me in some places of the
long glen in Leitrim, in others of Canadian scenes among the mountains.
We began to be beset by mounted men on scrubby ponies. They gathered
round us, riding along as our escort, behind and before and alongside
urging on us the necessity of a pony to cross the road through the gap.
Their pertinacity was something wonderful.
The carman stopped at a miserable cabin said to have been the residence
of the Kate Kearney of Lady Morgan's song. That heroine's modern
representative expects everyone to take a dose of goat's milk in poteen
from her, and leave some gratuity in return. The whole population turned
out to beg under some pretext or another. One very handsome girl,
bareheaded and barefooted, and got up light and airy as to costume,
begged unblushingly without any excuse. She gathered up her light
drapery with one hand, and kept up with the horse, skelping along
through mud and mire as if she liked it. I noticed that she was set on
by her parents who were the occupiers of a little farm.
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