No. MCCLXIII.

VOL. COLX.

MICHAEL DINNEEN'S cottage in Carrigarinka village wore a deserted look when I passed it on my way to the railway junction. Not that it ever looked particularly comfortable or prosperous, nor, indeed, could Dinneen himself be described in these terms.

An ex-soldier, who had lost an arm in the war, he was a comparatively recent settler in the village, driven there, it was reported, by ill-treatment received in his native place, which happened to be fiercely Sinn Fein and pro-German. I gathered he was popular in his new home. His neighbours treated him with cautious friendliness. He managed to obtain employment in the telegraph office in a country town three miles off, and went his way unmolested.

As I drove my car down the village street I realised that

VOL. CCIX.-NO. MCCLXIII.

I.

Carrigarinka was keeping a compulsory holiday-the third within the week. From at least one window in every house a Sinn Fein flag hung limply in the mild spring air; even the whitewashed wall round the pump was enlivened by stripes of green and yellow paint. In the distance I could see the limestone crag known as the little rock of the dancing, with a defiantly large flag tied to a stunted tree on its summit. The rock itself was a landmark visible for many miles. In the field below the country people formerly assembled for games and dancing. Later, the rock overlooked less innocent occupations, for, when not detained at the nation's expense, the chief Sinn Feiner of the district, one Teige O'Leary (or, as he patriotically rendered it, Tadg Laeghire), lived beneath its shelter.

A

Perhaps when compulsory a holiday loses some of its charm. Beyond the display of flags, I could see no particular signs of rejoicing. Indeed, most of the inhabitants appeared distinctly glum. The closing of the two public-houses-contrary to the usual holiday custom-might have caused some depression; but it is more likely that the men, mostly small landholders and working farmers, were uncomfortably aware that their farms must suffer from continual enforced holidays at the busy spring season, and that arrears of work were accumulating which they could scarcely hope to get even with.

And they had yet another reason for secret dismay. The holiday, ordered by Sinn Fein authorities, celebrated the release of hunger-striking political prisoners-men suspected of connivance and responsibility in murders and outrages which were condemned by all except a small band of extremists. Yet not one of the Carrigarinka villagers would have dared express disapproval of the release any more than he would have ventured to work that day. Each man feared his neighbour and mistrusted his oldest friend. Those whose fears were keenest flew the largest flags and flaunted their patriotic badges the most obtrusively.

I stopped my car at the post-office near the end of the long straggling street.

Inside I found Mrs Moylan, the postmistress, and

her

daughter Bridgie engaged in low-voiced conversation with two neighbours. The latter, drawing their shawls over their heads, departed quietly through the back door. Bridgie and her mother turned perturbed yet expectant faces to me. Evidently my visit betokened something of more more interest than a request for stamps. It was evident, too, that Bridgie Moylan had been crying.

Mrs Moylan, bending low as she handed the change, murmured apparently to the counter

"Did ye get anny account of Mike Dinneen? The poor fellow—”

She stopped abruptly and busied herself with the stamp drawer. I saw that a young man carrying a rebel flag had entered the little shop.

He belonged to a type which has come into existence in Ireland during the last few years-undefinable as to class, well dressed, well drilled, exuding arrogance and self-satisfaction. No vestige of the national indolence clings to the exponents of this type, and they have lost all traces of the national good nature. Indeed, they seem to have acquired something of the bearing that characterised their "glorious German ally."

He made no attempt to remove his hat in my presence, though he stepped aside perfunctorily to allow me to pass, dispelling any illusion of politeness by raising his flag and giving it an aggressive flutter.

His expression openly indicated contempt for my class, and triumph at the Government's latest surrender to Sinn Fein.

I drove away feeling ruffled, for when one's curiosity is aroused it is annoying to be unable to gratify it, and doubly so when the hindrance is in itself objectionable.

I resolved to call again at the post-office on my way home and find out more about Mike Dinneen.

But ill-luck pursued me that afternoon. Owing to the holiday the parcels office at the railway junction was closed, so I was unable to transact my business. Nor did I succeed in questioning Mrs Moylan about Dinneen, for I did not get within two miles of Carrigarinka.

At the steepest pitch of a long hill leading to the crossroads surmounted by the little rock of the dancing, there was a swishing sound in the bushes by the roadside. Four men with blackened faces sprang out, and raising revolvers barred my way. I had no choice but to apply the brakes. A fifth man, tall and well-dressed, wearing a black cloth mask, stepped leisurely from the fir plantation opposite. At a sign from him I was pulled unceremoniously out of the car. I stood in the road with a revolver against each side of my head. The muzzles felt cold and very hard.

I was both angry and startled, but anger had the upper hand.

we have no objection to your returning home on foot. You may spare yourself the trouble of ringing up the police or the military, because the wires have been cut."

His voice was brisk and decisive, with a slight hint of an American twang.

His companions replaced their revolvers in side-pockets, and packed themselves into the car. the leader started it against the steep hill showed he was well accustomed to the work.

The ease with which

A few minutes later the sound of the engine had died away round a bend in the road, and I was alone with my helpless fury.

Such episodes are common in Ireland. But though one hears of them continually, one scarcely expects to experience them oneself. The civilised habit of mind still persists, though the country is overrun by forces of disorder. Consequently my anger was mingled with a sense of unreality. I was obliged to lay my bare hand over the moss-covered

My shortest way home lay across country. In any other circumstances I should have enjoyed the walk down the sloping fields overlooking wide brown bog-lands, now transformed by the evening light into a fairy realm of soft and glowing colours.

In

That fairies really exist is a common belief in Ireland. spring, when the leprechaun's gold is spread over the furze bushes, when bare rocks are transformed into opals and every ridge of hill holds its own rainbow, it is easy to share this belief.

With the country people, however, the unseen world, whether of fairies or ancient gods or Christian saints, is always close at hand-a concrete fact to be reckoned with in daily life. And it is said that even up-to-date patriots who have shaken off the restraints of religion have been unable to free themselves from a disquieting belief in fairies.

The path wound downwards amongst rough boulders of granite to a sheltered hollow, where bluebells spread like a mist over the steep sides of an ancient rath.

A voice came unexpectedly from the rath, expressing a fervent hope that the speaker might meet me in heaven, and adding sadly that it would be a bad place if none of the old

Old Bat Cronin, who owned the adjacent farm, was standing, hat in hand, just above me on the slope of the rath.

His shrewd grey eyes surveyed me keenly, noting, no doubt, the cumbrous fur coat and motor gauntlets with which I was burdened.

"Faith, the gintry is bothered by their convaniences," he said earnestly as he replaced his hat.

I noticed a knot of Sinn Fein colours pinned to the soft crown. Yet Cronin's loyalty was above suspicion, and he had lost two sons in the war.

"There's some that rides horses and motor-cars that has a right to it," he announced in the well-modulated tones of a practised orator. "But there's some that's not good enough to be riding a donkey, and, faith, 'tis themselves does be sitting aisy in the motorcars in place of the quality."

Experience had taught me the impossibility of checking Bat Cronin's eloquence. I sat down on a boulder and let him have his say uninterrupted.

""Tis the notions they'd be collecting that'd destroy the country entirely," he went on, coming nearer, and lowering his voice. Their thrade unions and sthrikes and republican holidays! Tell me, ma'am, did ye ever hear the like of three holidays in the week, and the crows and pigeons to be ating the mangolds and seeds on account of