We had a happy time in the evening. There is no hospitality like the Irish hospitality. It is whole-hearted, cordial and sincere.
Miss Edith delighted us with several Irish songs. She sang Moore’s touching melody: “The Last Rose of Summer,” with genuine pathos. Afterwards she began on American songs, and when she had sung several, I remarked that she sang like an American.
She turned around on her piano stool and replied: “I have always admired America. Sometimes I tell my father that I believe that I was meant for an American woman.”
“Cross the ocean, Miss O’Neill,” said Mike quickly, “and a thousand Americans will swear that you were meant for an American man.”
Edith blushed and turned again to the piano.
“Tut, tut,” said Mr. O’Neill to Mike, “you have been kissing the Blarney Stone since you came to Ireland.”
“It’s the atmosphere,” I remarked, “Mr. Connor gets more like an Irishman every day.”
“Did you ever hear what the citizens of Dublin did when the Union of 1801 was agitated?” asked Mr. O’Neill. “They held an indignation meeting, and resolved to burn everything that was imported from England, except coal.” As we laughed heartily at this, Mr. O’Neill went on: “Our coachman made a curious remark to me today about you gentlemen and your aeroplane. He said you ought to feel proud of this trip you are making over Ireland in the air, for you are going where the foot of man never trod before.”
“This coachman amused me shortly after I first hired him. There is a bad hole back of the stable, and I forgot to say anything to him about it until I found he had fallen into it, and hurt himself severely. I told him I was sorry I had forgotten to tell him about it.”
“That’s all right, Master,” he replied, “I found it myself.”