Kentucky Irish American. (Louisville, Ky.) 1898-1968, 1915-12-18

perary;" | heard it whistled in Ger
many, and even a Japanese had TOLD
me how they sang it at home. Chilly
and very seriously he rendered it fol
me in his high falsetto and trans
lated the words as they understood
them literally in Japan:
It's long way to Miss Tipperary,
it's a long way to go to her;
It's long way to Miss Tipperary,
She is the sweetest girl that l can
know Of
It's long way to Miss Piccadilly,
it's a long way to Miss Russell
Square;
IT'S long way to Miss Tipperary,
But my heart wants her most.
1--WE think it is very beautiful to
sing so of ladies'" he said, as If it
were a serenade.
had heard it in the hospitals,
too-ah, so pitifully murmured by
the convalescent! For the soldiers
of Europe "Tipperary" is the slang
of the war. When a soldier was try
ing to describe the retreat from
Mons to me, he suddenly broke off
and snapped his thumb. ooh, it was
like this" he said, and began to
whistle "Tipperary," putting the de-
spondency he could not fit with
words into the tune. To me it
seemed as if the very soul of the
war had gone into "Tipperary.
Women have danced and have wept
to it, men have marched and fought
and died to it, and yet it is always
sung when no other song could be
suffered.
But no town in the world could
hold less associations with war than
sweet Tipperary, where the very
peace was fragrant. If you have
sung or danced the long way to
Tipperary" be content and do not
investigate farther; at least, not
until it is regularly linked on the
tourists map. To begin with it
wasn't on my map at all, nor on
any the station master produced,
although I once got a clew by hear
| ing there was military barracks
outside the town. My friend shook
| his head: YEN have to run into
it before We discover it," he said.
ct don't believe a soul outside of
Tiperary. and many that's within,
knows where it is"
Maybe it was wonderful to be the
first tourist to Tipperary, although
L was the only tourist in Ireland
last summer, and the first visitor to
many shrines made by the war; but
there were times enough when l
sighed to be regularly Cooked" as
[ tried to discover the end of my
thread which spun out like
SPIDERS. When at last my crisscross
pursuit brought me to the little
town that is natively rolled off as
"Tipp'rary" 1 could only totter into
the quaint inn and sink into the
arms of a beaming maid by the
name of Mollie, who acted as pro-
prietor, Service" guide and in
innate friend.
Mollie's tea would have revived
any one, but an efficiency expert
would have gone quite mad over her
'lost motions" as she cheerfully
pushed her tagging steps three
times down cellar during that one
eternal operation of tea. First she
went down for the milk and then
for the butter and then for the
marmalade. 1 was thankful that
the sugar was kept in the off pan
try. When l looked vaguely about
for the hot water she shot the most
bewitching, devil-inspired glance
from her lovely blue eyes and said,
with Juno's complacency: do you
really want the hot wather, miss?
So many drinks their tay strong.
and they say it's quite good" And
there Mollie sat. l never found why
my Mollie of the Lost Motions al
ways kept four knives beside my
plate, but / concluded that she was
the descendant of some old Celtic
clan whose hospitality had its in
tentions."
AS l slipped my tea, to the music
of Mollie's delicious murmurings
about the town where nothing ever
happened, / looked out into the lit
tie street where the beautifully
tinted plaster houses were glorified
with climbing roses, or the humber
huts stood with their shutters ajar
like arms resting on their con-
tented hips, while their open doors
smiled a placid welcome, and 1
saw, despite the rusty-haired, very
freckled little boy who began to
push mot lead) a belligerent dom
key down the street, that the town
of Tipperary was as strangely de-
void yet pregnant of its song as a
still talking-machine record.
Presently Mollie stood beaming
beside me with her thumbs twist
ing in her apron. May / be so
bold as to AK We quiston, miss?"
/ thought of all the relatives she
would probably accumulate in
"Ameriky,'( and sighed at the re-
membrance of those misleading let
ters on my suitcase. Then Molly
lifted her sweet eyes and whispered.
in way that always went SILVER
ing down my spine instead of into
my ear: miss, it's about a song /
do be Shearin' they call 'Tipperary.'
heard they sing 1t in the battles
and TO dance be in the States. The
praste says 'tisn't dacent for Irish
girls to be singin' about Piccadilly
and Leicester Square, so tits for
bidden in these parts. But, miss,
would love, indade 1 would, miss,
to be hearin' the tune of it-just
oncet, MISS"
| Who could refuse Moilie, the lit
tie maid Of Tipperary, who had
never heard the song that put her
town on the lips of the world? But
N rdor than too chino fsrf1;rn a ~ 1919 -.