GARRYOWEN 



PART I 



CHAPTER I 



IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA 



The great old house of Drumgool, ugly as a barn, 

 with a Triton dressed in moss and blowing a conch 

 shell before the front door, stands literally in the 

 roar of the sea. 



From the top front windows you can see the 

 Atlantic, blue in summer, grey in winter, tre- 

 mendous in calm or storm, and the eternal roar of 

 the league-long waves comes over the stunted fir 

 trees sheltering the house front, a lullaby or 

 menace just as your fancy wills. 



Everything around Drumgool is on a vast and 

 splendid scale. To the east beyond Drumboyne, 

 beyond the golden gorse, the mournful black bogs 

 and the flushes of purple heather, the sxm with one 

 sweep of his brush paints thirty miles of hills. 



Vast hills ever changing and always beautiful, 



gone now in the driving mist and rain, now un- 



wreathing themselves of cloud and disclosing sun- 



ht crag and purple glen outlined against the f ar- 



ofE blue and magical with the desolate beauty of 



distance. 



A 9 



