Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1889-02-03

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folk were transformed into a mob for venge-
ance. But at the height of this bedlamiuc
uproar, with a merry blast and a flourish,
the long car plunges out into the night,
scores of ragged urchiDs scrambling and
screeching beside it.; and as the bowling
cavalcade rushes away into the darkness,
the tones of these simple souls who remain
suddenly change to purring praises of Tim,
the bould driver" and all; and with something
like smiles upon their poor pinched visages.
they disperse through the now darkened streets
to their separate, ever-darker huts and homes.
The road from Oughterard through Cone
mara to Clifden by the sea stretches straight as
an arrow and as white as chalk for many miles
over blackened moor and bellying bog. Here
and there may be seen a little hut, as sOggy and
dank as the bog Itself but naught else relieves
the utter dreariness of the road, save the lofty
mountains to the north and west. On the morn
ing of my tramp these were lit up gloriously by
the morning sun. Faint, filmy patches of mist
from the sea swirled around and between these
heights, and formed a myriad surprising
changes, as though some magic hand were low
ering, lifting and winding gossamer wells of
varying and resplendent color around their
gray and glittering peaks. To the walkers
fancy that far country behind fills with won
drous forms and seemings. But the eye again
falls upon the dark, drear moor, the wretched
huts and the road of binding white.
Poo LITTLE URCHINs.
At a little distance it is filled with a bevy of
diminutive objects, moving to the right and
left as they approach, as though hesitant of
meeting humankind. You sit upon a capacious
milestone and await their coming. Shading
your eyes and closely regarding them. you won
der If they are a pack of ragged sheep, or ex-
plotting, hunger-scourged goats. Patter. pat
ter, patter, hating and running. on they came
in zig-zag course. By the horns of the Nubian
Ibex, they are neither sheep nor goats! They
are human beings. All are weazen-faced, little
old women it seems; for they surely cannot be
children. though their witch-like heads will
not reach to your own waist. They draw nearer.
the larger protectingly massed in front. You
notice their irresolution or fear; and scarcely
knowing what to say, you halloo loudly but
kindly, Come along, my dears, the road is all
yoursr' They 1utter a bit with heads together,
road. When almost opposite, you halt them
with an attempt at kindly authority. and ask:
Where are you going, little girls?" A great
din of childish cackle, pitched in a high key of
mild reproach, surprise and merry squalor
arises.
I'VE bent girls, sor. Yves byesr' says the
boldest of the bevy.
"Boysr'-you gasp. "Well, well, boys, come
over here a moment"
They look at each other scared, snickering,
Historically. The older and holder move for
ward a little, and in q twinkling they are all in
q crescent-shaped balf-circle before you, ready
for savage defense or instant flight In
heavens name, you wonder, where can another
such woeful sight be seen? 1t is mid-winter;
the earth is frozen; the winds are sharp and
cutting; with your own glowing blood and
health, and in the warmest clothing you shud-
utT anu CHILL when ndlLln2. DuG mere LIT u
dozen waits in the image of God, more than
half naked, bony, shriveled, white from want
and hunger, bare-footed, barelegged, half of
them bare-armed and bare-headed, and, as
their ragged books reveal, on their way to
school from the mountains and boys, dragging
their scrawny, bloodless feet 20 miles a day for
a faint, dim glimpse Of the heaven
and the schoolroom books. If you have a mans
heart, their spectral presences will be hidden
behind the mist in your own eyes; but as 1t
ole y q nUn hnt ryi1d mr. vfrQ nv nnC-
tunes startle you. Every one of these wretehed
creatures has no more than one thickness of
cloth between himself and the winter day: and
that one does not half cover him. 1t is the
Conemara mapped flannel. The garment of
each is no more than a sack, hanging from the
shoulders to just above the knees, and remind
ing of the bags in which the little plantation
blacks of the South were formerly clad. On
one this will be worn into shreds throughout;
another's is swathed like a Matchmaking
mummy; another shows patches of startling
variety held together by osier strands;
another's is ripped ana whipped and torn until
his bloodless clay-like flesh shows in a score of
places beneath; while every one is hollow-eyed,
matted-haired, claw-fingered, cadaverous; a
blot on the face of the earth in q Christian
land and time; and if there be curse for expia-
ton on individuals or Government responsible
wretches alone are infinitely more than
needed witnesses before the bar Of man and
God.
A wAYSIDE HOMILY.
You are a tramp there on the milestone, but
a comfortable one. In your wallet is food. You
call these specters of famine to you. divide
among them all you have, and watch them tear
at it like savage beasts. oh, it is pitiful! Then
you beguile a little heart and hope into them
with simple words about the school, and call
them the brave Irish lads they are; get them
around you, and leaning on your knee. with
your hands on their shoulders and heads, or
holding their bony, icy fingers; and you tell
them how they must study, as you did not: and
not mitch" Irish for playing truant) as you
did; and that sure, sure. in no far-oH day they
will come to good mems estate, able to .'rise'
their parents out of the huts and cabins into
sweet and happy homes; not forgetting the
practical Christianity of emphasizing palaver
with pence; until right there in the middle of
a Conemara bog a miracle will be performed
before your very eyes. For ambitionless beasts
have been transformed into cumulative humans:
and the gaunt faces, in which was no more soul
than in dirty wax, has had blood and light put
in them; and a shout of good cheer goes up
where misery and hunger brooded.
You stand and watch the ragged flock until
its white faces and rags have blended with the
white of the wide, ribbon-like way; and turn
upon your tramp-to be confronted with a
group of peasant women almost as meagerly
clad as these their children, but still far more
picturesque in their 1annels of black, blue and
red. One is armed with a long-handled turf
spade. Another is discovered se~creting an old
wheel spoke underneath her cloak. Another
leans upon a onetined pitchfork, Others have
clubs and cudgels. And one tall, gaunt Meg |
Merrilies," like some savage type of old Time
in petticoats, bears an enormous sickle. Your
interest in the group blinds you for a moment
to their threatening aspect. They have been
gathered by some swift signals from the huts |
along the bog, and have come prepared to see
that you do not 'thrifie wild the childre;" but
having discovered that your motives are friend
ly, no pen can describe their wise and vocifer-
Gus attempts to hide their original purpose, or
the cead mile failte with a thousand well
comes) in which you are conveyed along the
highway, and the Inequalities and embarrass-
ing honors that are accorded you. In some
wierd, secret way all this seems to be flashed
along in advance of you, making your progress
a veritable %triumphal march; until a long
reach of uninhabited and savagely wild eoun-
try is passed. through which countless outland-
ish incidents are experienced on the road Alone,
which, now winding over and up and on and
over again, at last brings you to the threshold
of the glorious Western Highlands.
EDGAR L. WAKEMAN.
Marion Harland,
The celebrated authoress, so highly esteemed
by the women of America, says on pages LOB
H-s 4