r cut down here, lest a grieved
and displeased fairy look up from the cloven trunk, and no Irishman
could bear to meet the reproach of her eyes. Do not imagine, however,
that we are all in white, like a bride: there is the pink hawthorn,
and there are pink and white horse-chestnuts laden with flowers, yellow
laburnums hanging over whitewashed farm-buildings, lilacs, and, most
wonderful of all, the blaze of the yellow gorse. There will be a thorn
hedge struggling with and conquering a grey stone wall; then a golden
gorse bush struggling with and conquering the thorn; seeking the sun,
it knows no restraints, and creeping through the barriers of green and
white and grey, it fairly hurls its yellow splendours in great blazing
patches along the wayside. In dazzling glory, in richness of colour,
there is nothing in nature that we can compare with this loveliest and
commonest of all wayside weeds. The gleaming wealth of the Klondike
would make a poor showing beside a single Irish hedgerow; one would
think that Mother Earth had stored in her bosom all the sunniest gleams
of bygone summers, and was now giving them back to the sun king from
whom she borrowed them.

It was at twilight when we first swam this fragrant, golden
sea--twilight, and the birds were singing in every bush; the thrushes
and blackbirds in the blossoming cherry and chestnut-trees were so many
and so tuneful that the chorus was sweet and strong beyond anything
I ever heard. There had been a shower or two, of course; showers that
looked like shimmering curtains of silver gauze, and whether they lifted
or fell the birds went on singing.

"I did not believe such a thing possible but it is lovelier than
Pettybaw," said Francesca; and just here we came in sight of a pink
cottage cuddling on the breast of a hill. Pink the cottage was, as if
it had been hewed out of a coral branch or the heart of a salmon;
pink-washed were the stone walls and posts; pink even were the chimneys;
a green lattice over the front was the only leaf in the bouquet.
Wallflowers grew against the pink stone walls, and there is no beautiful
word in any beautiful language that can describe the effect of
that modest, rose-hued dwelling blushing against a background of
heather-brown hills covered solidly with golden gorse bushes in full
bloom. Himself and I have always agreed to spend our anniversaries with
Mrs. Bobby at Comfort Cottage, in England, or at Bide-a-Wee, the 'wee,
theekit hoosie' in