ay at Kildare Villa Chester and Lucy set out
to see the town, riding in Aunt Sarah's car behind the pony. There had
been a sprinkle of rain during the night, so the roads were pleasant.
Lucy pointed out the places of interest, consulting occasionally a guide
book.

"While viewing the scenery, it is highly educational to get the proper
information," said Lucy as she opened her book. "It states here that
Cork is a city of 76,000 people. According to one authority it had a
beginning in the seventh century. Think of that now, and compare its
growth with that of Kansas City, for instance."

"I have always associated this city with the small article used as
stoppers for bottles," said Chester.

"You thought perhaps the British needed a cork to stop up their harbor,"
said Lucy, gravely; "but you are entirely mistaken. The book says the
name is a corruption of Corcach, meaning a marsh. The town has, however,
long since overflowed the water, and now occupies not only a large
island in the river, but reaches up the high banks on each side."

They were evidently in Ireland.

"A most noticeable peculiarity of Cork is its absolute want of
uniformity, and the striking contrasts in the colors of the houses. The
stone of which the houses in the northern suburb is built is of reddish
brown, that on the south, of a cold gray tint. Some are constructed of
red brick, some are sheathed in slate, some whitewashed; some reddened,
some yellowed. Patrick may surely do as he likes with his own house. The
most conspicuous steeple in the place, that of St. Ann, Shandon's, is
actually red two sides and white the others,

'Parti-colored, like the people,
Red and white stands Shandon steeple.'

and there it is before us," said Lucy.

The tower loomed from a low, unpretentious church. The two visitors
drove up the hill, stopped the horse while they looked at the tower and
heard the bells strike the hour.

"What Father Prout could see in such commonplace things to inspire him
to write his fine poem, I can not understand," said Lucy. "There is a
peculiar jingle in his lines which stays with one. Listen:

"'With deep affectation and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood
Fling round my cradle their magic spells--
On this I ponder, where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork of thee
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound s