The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1893-08-19

quietness is a foretaste of Paradise.
AS this is the most satisfactory day l
have yet spent in my pilgrimage, al
though it bears, at the same time, q
family likeness to the other days Of
the past fortnight, purpose setting
,, down, verbatim seriatim, and chrome
logically, the manner in which occ,l-
pied myself from dawn to sunset.
sc a. m.-Wake and see. that Tim has
! already disappeared and folded up his
hammock. Observe the morning sun
looking in with fresh, CHEEKY coun-
tenance at the window. Turn over
again with a yawn, and go to sleep for
! another five minutes.
''7:t5 a. m.-Wake again, and dis
cover, by looking at my watch, that,
instead of five minutes, have slept an
hour and quarter. Spring up at once
and slip on shirt and trousers; then
pass out, barefooted, into the open air.
No sign of Tim, but a fire is lighted
close to the caravan, which shadows it
from the rays of the morning sun.
Stroll down to the lake and throwing
off what garments wear, prepare for
bath. Cannot get out for swim on
account of the reeds. The bath over,
return and finish my toilet in the cara
van.
SO a. m.-Tin has reappeared. He
has been right down to the seashore,
walk of about two miles and a half.
He informs me to my disgust that
there is some sort of a human settle
ment there, and life-boat station.
He has brought back in his baglet, as
specimens of the local products. doz-
en- newlaid eggs, some milk and loaf
of bread. The last, l observe, is in a.
fossil state. I ask who sold it him.
He answers, William Jones.
$3.50 a. m.-We breakfast splendid
ly. Even the fossil loaf yields susten-
ance, after it is cut up and dissolved
in hot tea. Between whites Tim in
forms me that the settlement down
yonder is, in his opinion, a poor sort of
place. There are several whitewashed
cottages and large, roohess house,
for all the world like a church. Devil
the cow or pig did he see at ALL barrin'
a few hens. Any boats, ask? Yes,
one. witt, the bottom knocked out, be-
longing to William Jones.
Tim has got this name so pat that
my curiosity begins to be aroused.
who the deuce is William Jones?'
Sure, thin,' says Tim, he's the man
that lives down beyant, by the sea- l
demand, somewhat irritably, if the
place contains only one inhabitant?
Devil another did Tim see, he explains
-barrin' William Jones.
$3.50 a. m.-Start painting in the
open air. under the shade of a large
white cotton umbrella. Paint on till
| p. IN.
the sand hills, avoiding the settlement
| beyond the lake. Don't want to meet
| any of the aboriginals, more particu-
| larly William Jones. Walking here is
like running up and down Atlantic bill
lows, assuming said pillows to be solid;
| now I am lost in the trough of the
sand, now I re-emerge on the crest of
| the solid wave. Amusing, but fatiguing.
| Suddenly hare starts from under my
feet and goes leisurely away. re-
! member an old amusement of mine in
! the west of Ireland, and track Puss
| by her footprints-now clearly and
| beautifully printed in the soft sand Of
the hollows, now more family marked
| on the harder sides of the ridges. The
sun blazes down, the refraction of the
heat from the sand is overpowering,
| the air is quivering, sparkling and
| pulsating, as if full of innumerable
sand crystals. A horrible croak from
| overhead startles me, and, looking up,
| I see an enormous raven, wheeling
! along i'm circles and searching the
| ground for mice or other prey.
Hooking at my watch, find have
| been toiling in the sandy wilderness
for quite two hours. Time to get back
| and dine. Climb the nearest hillock,
| and look round to discover where am.
| Can see nothing but the sandy pillows
on every side, and am entirely at loss
which way to go. At last, after half
| an hours blind wandering, stumble by
| accident on the road by the lakeside
and see the caravan in the distance.
81 D. m.-Dinner. Boiled potatoes,
boiled eggs, fried bacon. Tins cook
ing is primitive, but I could devour
anything-even William Jones' fossil
bread asked if any human being
has visited the camp. 'Sorra one, Tim
says, looking rather disappointed. He
has got to feel himself a public char
acter, and misses the homage of the
! vulgar.
Paint again till six p. m.
"A beautiful sunset. The sand hills
grow rosy in the light, the lake deep
! ems from crimson to purple, the moon
comes out like silver sickle over the
sandy sea. A thought seizes me as the
shadows increase. Now is the time
to entice the pink trout from their
depths in the lake. get out my fish
ing rod and line, and, stretching two
or three flies which seem suitable, pre-
pare for action. My rod is only a
small, single-handed one, and is difficult
to cast beyond the sedges, but the fish
are rising thickly out in the tranquil
pools, and, determined not to be beat
en-, wade in to the knees Half a
dozen trout. each about the size of a
small herring, reward my enterprise.
f1o