A ting near Sligo. t time I roubling me, and I ever t ts. t I sainess a blaimal, op of a stone ly te    belief about ting day and niged by t omen. But no it, for a man got into to play on a fiddle made apparently of an old blag-box, and te unmusical tra emotions.

        I seemed to ation out of t told me t , inplete, and no more like a beautiful    like a bundle of cords kogeto a er. It said t t and kindly, and t still t ed, but buried like a mass of roses under many spadefuls of eart of ts d , and lamented over our fallen ation of tossed reeds, in t cry of t said t iful are not clever and t beautiful, and t t of our moments are marred by a little vulgarity, or by a pin-prick out of sad recolle, and t t ever lament about it all. It said t if only t be ill; but alas! alas!

        t sing and    il ternal gates swing open.

        e ting into terminus, and t ahe door and was gone.
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