THE HERON 
the lake. Most days, when Andy himself 
climbed thither to cut furze or snare rabbits, 
the heron would flap up majestically, and 
alighting on the hillside a little way off, watch 
him out of sight. 
It may have been the November mists which 
stiffened the old man's joints, but day by day 
he walked up the mountain more slowly, and 
very often his lips moved as if he were talking 
to himself. Whenever he saw the Corr iasc fly 
up, he used to pull off his old hat and flourish 
it, shouting : " Good luck to ye." Very often, 
when fishing in this little lake at dawn, the 
heron saw Andy toiling up the mountain-side 
from Ballongarry, with his frieze trousers torn 
by brambles, and his pockets full of rabbits. 
Andy was always talking to himself at these 
times, and only broke off to shout : " Begob, 
there's still a heron in Ballongarry ! " 
Then in the evening, when the heron flew up 
from the bogs, he used to swerve aside at the 
bend in the road where Andy, with his pipe 
aglow, leaned against his door and looked at 
Ballongarry. He commonly talked so loudly at 
these times, that the Corr iasc in the tarn could 
hear him. Once when a belated donkey-cart 
was passing down the road, Andy was shaking 
his fist at the lights of Ballongarry, and speak- 
ing so thickly and so fast that the man in 
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