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Penelope's Irish Experiences-Part13_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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silver pools glistening here and there in the turf cuttings, and



watch the transparent vapour rising from the red-brown of the

purple-shadowed bog fields. Dinnis Rooney, half awake, leisurely,



silent, is moving among the stacks with his creel. How the missel

thrushes sing in the woods, and the plaintive note of the curlew



gives the last touch of mysterioustenderness to the scene. There

is a moist, rich fragrance of meadowsweet and bog myrtle in the air;



and how fresh and wild and verdant it is!

'For there's plenty to mind, sure, if on'y ye look to the grass



at your feet,

For 'tis thick wid the tussocks of heather, an' blossoms and



herbs that smell sweet

If ye tread thim; an' maybe the white o' the bog-cotton waves



in the win',

Like the wool ye might shear off a night-moth, an' set an ould



fairy to spin;

Or wee frauns, each wan stuck 'twixt two leaves on a grand



little stem of its own,

Lettin' on 'twas a plum on a tree.'*



*Jane Barlow.

As for Lough Lein itself, who could speak its loveliness, lying like



a crystal mirror beneath the black Reeks of the McGillicuddy, where,

in the mountain fastnesses, lie spell-bound the sleeping warriors



who, with their bridles and broadswords in hand, await but the word

to give Erin her own! When we glide along the surface of the lakes,



on some bright day after a heavy rain; when we look down through the

clear water on tiny submerged islets, with their grasses and drowned



daisies glancing up at us from the blue; when we moor the boat and

climb the hillsides, we are dazzled by the luxuriant beauty of it



all. It hardly seems real--it is too green, too perfect, to be

believed; and one thinks of some fairy drop-scene, painted by



cunning-fingered elves and sprites, who might have a wee folk's way

of mixing roses and rainbows, dew-drenched greens and sun-warmed



yellows; showing the picture to you first all burnished, glittering

and radiant, then 'veiled in mist and diamonded with showers.' We



climb, climb, up, up, into the heart of the leafy loveliness;

peering down into dewy dingles, stopping now and again to watch one



of the countless streams as it tinkles and gurgles down an emerald

ravine to join the lakes. The way is strewn with lichens and



mosses; rich green hollies and arbutus surround us on every side;

the ivy hangs in sweet disorder from the rocks; and when we reach



the innermost recess of the glen we can find moist green jungles of

ferns and bracken, a very bending, curling forest of fronds:-



'The fairy's tall palm-tree, the heath bird's fresh nest,

And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and best.'



Carrantual rears its crested head high above the other mountains,

and on its summit Shon the Outlaw, footsore, weary, slept; sighing,



"For once, thank God, I am above all my enemies."

You must go to sweet Innisfallen, too, and you must not be prosaic



or incredulous at the boatman's stories, or turn the 'bodthered ear

to them.' These are no ordinary hillsides: not only do the wee



folk troop through the frond forests nightly, but great heroic

figures of romance have stalked majestically along these mountain



summits. Every waterfall foaming and dashing from its rocky bed in

the glen has a legend in the toss and swirl of the water.



Can't you see the O'Sullivan, famous for fleetness of foot and

prowess in the chase, starting forth in the cool o' the morn to hunt



the red deer? His dogs sniff the heather; a splendid stag bounds

across the path; swift as lightning the dogs follow the scent across



moors and glens. Throughout the long day the chieftain chases the

stag, until at nightfall, weary and thirsty, he loses the scent, and



blows a blast on his horn to call the dogs homeward.

And then he hears a voice: "O'Sullivan, turn back!"



He looks over his shoulder to behold the great Finn McCool, central

figure in centuries of romance.



"Why do you dare chase my stag?" he asks.

"Because it is the finest man ever saw," answers the chieftain



composedly.

"You are a valiant man," says the hero, pleased with the reply;



"and as you thirst from the long chase, I will give you to drink."

So he crunches his giant heel into the rock, and forth burst the



waters, seething and roaring as they do to this day; "and may the

divil fly away wid me if I've spoke an unthrue word, ma'am!"






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