It is bitter cold, and I have the
windward side of the car, and shiver at the nodding daffodils in
blooming clumps at every cottage as we pass along. There are some waste
unreclaimed fields, and the tide is out as we drive along, so that long
stretches of bare blue mud, spotted with eruptions of sea weed, fit well
with the cold wind that is enjoying a cutting sweep at us. Then we come
again to trim gardens and ivy garnished walls. The road follows the
curves of the Lough, and we watch the black steamers ploughing along,
and the brown-sailed little boats scudding before the breeze.
The Lough is on one side, and a remarkable, high steep ridge on the
other, yellow with budded whins, green with creeping ivy, and up on the
utmost ridge a row of plumed pines. When I noticed their tufted tops
standing out against the sky, I felt like saying, "Hurrah! hurrah for
Canada!" the pines did look so Canadian looking. I soon was recalled to
realize that I was in my own green Erin, and certainly it is with a cold
breath she welcomes her child back again.
We knew we were nearing Moville: we saw it on a distant point stretching
out into the Lough.
