There were some soldiers on the car, young men, boys in fact, who
seemed by the heavy marching order of their get-up to be going to join
their regiment. Some of them struggled mannishly with the tears they
fain would hide. Truly the Irish are attached to the soil. I could not
help wondering if these lads were ordered to foreign service, and on
what soil they would lay down their heads to rest forever.
Two persons near by, conversing in low tones on the state of the
country, drew my attention to them. One was a sonsie good-wife with any
amount of bundles, the other a little old man with a face of almost
superhuman wisdom.
"The country will be saved mem, now; when the Coercion Bill has passed
the country will be saved," said the old man.
"There's a great deal too much fuss made about everything," remarked the
good-wife. "Look at that boy ten years old taken up, bless us all! for
whistling at a man."
"Did you take notice, mem, that the whistling was derisive, was
derisive, it was derisive. That is where it is, you see," said the old
man with a slow, sagacious roll of his head.
"I would not care what a wee boy could put into a whistle:
