PICTURES FROM AN IRISH MOORLAND. 





CHAPTER I. 



SHAUN RUADHA. 



IN the dark hour before dawn of a December 

 morning the moorland fowler slips shivering 

 into the gloomy car that in Ireland is called 

 covered. His way is through the street of an 

 old ramshackle town, in which a dank sea fog 

 muffles the gas lamps, while his vehicle is at 

 every moment interrupted by the warning shout 

 of a peasant driving a sort of tumbril full of 

 pigs intended for sale at the monthly market 

 held on the edge of the borough. Though 

 the day has not yet broken, the pig fair is in 

 full swing; lights twinkle from the tents, the 

 intractable grunters are growling and squeak- 

 ing on all sides, the road is blocked in Lud- 



