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A Monthly BI-LINGUAL MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE Promotion of THE LANGUAGE, LITERATURE, MU$IC, AND ART OR IRELAND.

NEW YORK, JANUARY, 1904.

No. 1. VOL. XXIII. NEW SERIES.

TWENTY-THIRD YEAR

OF PUBLICATION.

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INNY BREEN, step

ping over from Rathlashin to Clochranbeg, а few perches short of the Silver Lane, met with Joe Hedican, leading his sorrel

mare, and said to him, "What at all ails you?"

"Is it what ails me?” said Joe.

"Sure, what else?” said Dinny, "and the mare in a lather and a thrimble, and yourself comin' along as unstuddy as a thing on wires. Lookin' fit to drop down you are."

"And why wouldn't we have a right to be?” said Joe, “and ourselves after seein' what we won't either of us be the better for till the day we're waked.”

“Bedad then, that's the plisant talk for me to be hearin', wid the light darkenin' before me every minyit,” said Dinny. “And so it's wakin' the ould mare you'll be, says you? Well now, I never heard the like of that. But, to be sure, I'm not very long in the County Donegal. I hope you'll send me word of the buryin'. It's a comical notion, if you come to consider

it.” He laughed, upon consideration, with much noise; but as the mare rolled her eyes wildly at him, and Joe only shook his head the more, he withdrew abruptly from their unsympathetic countenances, though he persisted in his guffaw. When he had gone half a dozen yards, he faced round and shouted: "Might you happen to know is the Garveys' boat in yet?” Joe, however, was just mounting, and plunged off at full speed, without seeming to hear. “Fine floundherin' and bouncin' about he has, and be hanged to him, himself and his ould garron," Dinny said with indignation. "If I thought the Garveys were apt to be stoppin' out late, I'd lave it till tomorra, and turn back now; but I couldn't tell I mightn't lose the job wid delayin'."

This was not the risk he chose to run, and he presently reached the entrance of the high-banked, winding boreeen, whence he glanced back in hopes that some fellow-travelers might be catching up to him. Nothing, however, moved the lonely moorland road behind him, except the gallop of Joe Hedican's horse, hurling itself in the wrong direction. So he went for

ward without the prospect of any company.

The Silver Lane twists through a sea of softly heaped mounds, scantily clad with bent-grass, pale and dry, and dark, harsh-textured furzes. These are rooted in almost pure sand, silvery hued, yet under strong sunbeams yielding dim golden glimmers, that give a faint purple to the shadow in its

curves and folds. But the touch of this March evening's twilight left it all cold, white and gray. It lies deep and powdery on the narrow roadway, so that a man has not even the sound of his own footsteps to reassure him, should he be disposed to feel lonesome and apprehensive. Dinny Breen was feeling both, as he passed the second sharp turn of the lane, and came to a place where a crevice-like path pierced the sandhill on his left. Here he noticed many huge hoof-prints, some of them impressed with violence upon the low buttresses of the banks, which, in the ordinary course of things, no horse would have trodden. "Hereabouts it is they seen whatever it was frightened them,” he said to himself, "and set the mare prancin' and dancin'. Between us and

on

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