Il6 MEMORIES OF GLENAUGH. 



uncle and Father O'Brien to pursue the path 

 together, or to trot, should they ride, beside 

 each other, and take a short cut of my own to 

 the end of the hill. Winding round the neck 

 of Glenaugh roll the cars and the tumbril-like 

 wagons, the road is dotted with black cloaks 

 and red shawls, ding-dong clangs the bell still 

 farther below me, while a squadron of crows 

 wheel up in the sunshine, and then perch 

 about amongst the tall firs, or amongst the 

 branches of mountain-ash, in which the berries 

 gleam as red as fire. The brawling stream 

 never ceases to talk hoarsely, as it were, in a 

 multitude of voices, and if you listen keenly 

 you can catch the thud and shout it makes as 

 it leaps some thirty feet from a rock a quarter 

 of a mile off. But see ! the people are pouring 

 from the dell into the chapel. Shall we join 

 them? 



If you please, we will not examine this 

 humble house of prayer with critical eyes. 

 There is, indeed, a pathetic interest in the mud 

 floor, the white-washed walls, on which tears of 

 damp flow down the faces of badly-painted 

 saints ; all this must be taken in connection 



