SAG 71 



thoroughfare and all bespeaks the Irish settlement. 

 Rows upon rows of tiny cottages line these side 

 streets, telling of the ever-present longing in the 

 heart of the homeless Irish peasant for a bit of the 

 earth to call his own; and one ventures to say 

 that most of the houses are owned, except for 

 a mortgage, maybe, by those who live within. 

 They may struggle against hardships of many 

 sorts, but eventually they will win out, and the 

 land will be theirs; and then, with only the taxes 

 to pay, there will come better days. 



The trolley takes us across and along number- 

 less tracks and beside the ruins of the "old red 

 bridge" that used to span the black, scum-cov- 

 ered, incredible slime of Bubbly Creek. Beyond 

 Bridgeport, the houses grow more sparse, and in 

 the open ditches bordered with willows and silver 

 maples dappling in the wind, swim sociable geese 

 that tell of the growing feather-beds within. 

 Then comes the country, level as a floor. Acres 

 and acres of vegetables, and fields tawny with 

 squirrel-grass or greening after the mowing, lie 

 smiling in the mid-forenoon sun, as the hot earth 

 gives its odor to the west wind for one must 

 go to Sag on a west-wind day. 



We pass through the hamlets of Summit and 

 Willow Springs and along the attractive heights 



