ry mile of it, sir," he said, "every mile of it; and we see him
riding along the roads on his bicycle going to sick-calls buttoned up
in his old coat."

"Do you often come this way?"

"Not very often, sir. No one lives here except the poor people and the
priest and the doctor. It is the poorest parish in Ireland, and every
third or fourth year there's a famine; and they would have died long
ago if it had not been for Father James."

"And how does he help them?"

"Isn't he always writing letters to the Government asking for relief
works. Do you see those bits of roads? They are the relief works."

"Where do those roads lead to?"

"Nowhere. The road stops in the middle of the bog when the money is
out."

"But," I said, "surely it would be better if the money were spent upon
permanent improvements, on drainage, for instance."

The boy did not answer; he called to his horse, and I had to press him
for an answer.

"There's no fall, sir."

"And the bog is too big," I added, in hope of encouraging conversation.

"Faith it is, sir."

"But we are not very far from the sea, are we?"

"About a couple of miles."

"Well, then," I said, "couldn't a harbour be made?"

"They were thinking about that, but there's no depth of water, and the
engineer said it would be cheaper to send the people to America.
Everyone is against emigration now, but the people can't live here."

"So there is no hope," I said, "for home industries, weaving,
lace-making."

"I won't say that."

"But has it been tried?"

"The candle do be burning in the priest's window till one in the
morning, and he sitting up thinking of plans to keep the people at
home. Do you see that house, sir, fornint my whip, at the top of the
hill?" I said I did. "Well, that's the playhouse that he built."

"A playhouse," I said.

"Yes, sir; Father James hoped that people might come from Dublin to see
it. No play like it had ever been acted in Ireland before, sir."

"This carman of mine," I said to myself, "is an extraordinary
fellow,--he has got a story about everyone; he is certainly a
legitimate descendant of the old bards," and I leaned across the car
and said to him:--

"And was the play performed?"

"No, sir. The priest had been learning them all the summer, but the
autumn was on them before they had got it by rote, and a wind came and
blew down one of the walls."

"And couldn't Father MacTurnan get the money to build it up?"

"Sure he might have