Many of tales in told me by one Paddy Flynn, a little brig to say, “t gentle”—y Sligo.” Ot,    sed to Drumcliff and Druma time I saime    I could see in    as t, ion of tinctive natures and of all animals.

        Ao depress riple solitude of age, etricity, and deafness,    about mucered by ce, of telling o-day, mot. “orse,” replied to-morro. t day cille came again, aly tion took place, but tter, t replied, “May you be better to-morroelling    t day alike o unceasing flames. range sigo keep o make    t annoyed oo if ,” er, batting ts hands.”

        I    of Paddy Flyions, from a note-book ales and sayings, sly after seeing    te-bretfully, for t ttle of    times, t of so mut for some days and then died.

        imes, could not bear t teller of tales, and unlike our on romancers, kney ory, faeryland ao people ories.    live in a s knea simplicity and amplitude of imagination.    is literature but t? And are t moods ed eart moods ogeto set ts to to t to t of rocks? Let us go fortellers of tales, and seize    long for, and s, everytrue, and ttle dust under our feet.
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