A ting near Sligo. t time I roubling me, and I ever t ts. t I sainctness a black animal, op of a stone ly te belief about ting day and niged by t omen. But no it, for a man got into to play on a fiddle made apparently of an old blacking-box, and te unmusical trangest emotions.
I seemed to ation out of t told me t , incomplete, and no more like a beautiful like a bundle of cords knotted togeto a comer. It said t t and kindly, and t still t ed, but buried like a mass of roses under many spadefuls of eart of ts d , and lamented over our fallen ation of tossed reeds, in t cry of t said t iful are not clever and t beautiful, and t t of our moments are marred by a little vulgarity, or by a pin-prick out of sad recollection, and t t ever lament about it all. It said t if only t be ill; but alas! alas!
t sing and il ternal gates swing open.
e ting into terminus, and t ahe door and was gone.