The Fields Are Flocked With Myriads
Of Happy Eyed Daisies, The Ditch Backs Glowing With Golden Blossoms.
My
eyes make me wealthy with looking at beauty.
We are nearing the town, for the woodland wealth is enclosed behind high
walls. Grand houses peep from among the branches; trim lodges, ivy-
garnished, sit at the gates, glimpses of gardens are seen, all the
wealth of leafage and blossoming that fertility spreads over the land
when spring breathes is here. In a glow of sunshine after the rain -
smiles after tears - we enter Sligo.
We draw up in the open street, everyone alights from our elevation as
they can. No one takes notice of any other by way of help. Each gets off
and goes his several way. The land agent, who has sat in high-bred
silence all the way, pays his fare and goes off on the car that awaits
him. The rest disperse. I pay my fare. The driver asks to be remembered.
I mentally wonder what for. I paid a porter to place my bag on the car.
I got up as I could, I scramble down as I may. I will pay another porter
to take me to a hotel. The driver's whip takes as much notice of me as
he does. Why in the world should I remember him? It is part of a system
of imposition and it would be rank communism to find fault, so I
remember him; he thanks me, and this little game of give and take ends.
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