e old woman has adopted him to console
herself for the loss of her own sons.

He is now a well-grown child, though not yet able to say more than a
few words of Gaelic. His favourite amusement is to stand behind the
door with a stick, waiting for any wandering pig or hen that may
chance to come in, and then to dash out and pursue them. There are
two young kittens in the kitchen also, which he ill-treats, without
meaning to do them harm.

Whenever the old woman comes into my room with turf for the fire, he
walks in solemnly behind her with a sod under each arm, deposits
them on the back of the fire with great care, and then flies off
round the corner with his long petticoats trailing behind him.

He has not yet received any official name on the island, as he has
not left the fireside, but in the house they usually speak of him as
'Michaeleen beug' (i.e. 'little small-Michael').

Now and then he is slapped, but for the most part the old woman
keeps him in order with stories of 'the long-toothed hag,' that
lives in the Dun and eats children who are not good. He spends half
his day eating cold potatoes and drinking very strong tea, yet seems
in perfect health.

An Irish letter has come to me from Michael. I will translate it
literally.

DEAR NOBLE PERSON,--I write this letter with joy and pride that you
found the way to the house of my father the day you were on the
steamship. I am thinking there will not be loneliness on you, for
there will be the fine beautiful Gaelic League and you will be
learning powerfully.

I am thinking there is no one in life walking with you now but your
own self from morning till night, and great is the pity.

What way are my mother and my three brothers and my sisters, and do
not forget white Michael, and the poor little child and the old grey
woman, and Rory. I am getting a forgetfulness on all my friends and
kindred.--I am your friend ...

It is curious how he accuses himself of forgetfulness after asking
for all his family by name. I suppose the first home-sickness is
wearing away and he looks on his independent wellbeing as a treason
towards his kindred.

One of his friends was in the kitchen when the letter was brought to
me, and, by the old man's wish, he read it out loud as soon as I had
finished it. When he came to the last sentence he hesitated for a
moment, and then omitted it altogether.

This young man had come up to bring me a copy of the 'Love Songs of
Connaught,' wh