Before we reached the more level land, beyond the hills of Bantry Bay, we had one of our worst experiences with the aeroplane. While crossing a very broken, and hilly stretch of country, covered with stone fences, small cabins, and mountain garden patches, without any warning, the motor again stopped suddenly.
“BEGORRA, IT’S A FOINE BURD.”
I cried out to Mike to land at once. He was compelled to alight, for, when the motor is dead, an aeroplane is like a bird with two broken wings. With the rocky ground, stone fences, and little garden-patches, it was the most difficult descent Mike had to make. He saved the aeroplane from a smash-up only by lighting squarely on the roof of one of the little thatched cabins. As we landed on it, a man, his wife and several children rushed out and gazed at us in silent wonder. We climbed down as best we could, and explained our plight. While the man went away to get some of his neighbors to assist us in getting the aeroplane down on the ground, I looked the cabin over. It was not a beautiful sight when seen close at hand. A vile-smelling manure pile was heaped in front of the door, and the rude stone walls were most unsightly. The thatch looked as ancient as some of the old ruins we had lately seen. The cabin had only one room. Chickens ran in and out along with the children, and as I entered inside, I saw “the pig in the parlor,” for the one room was the kitchen, dining room, parlor and bed-room combined. Part of the cooking was done outside during fair weather, and a pot of potatoes were boiling over a peat fire beside the cottage. There was a baby in the mother’s arms, and I counted six other children around her. Pallets of straw showed where the nightly rest was obtained. The floor was nothing but hard mother earth. A table, two rough chairs, and a stool, with a rough cupboard completed the furnishings. A few pots lay near the peat fire under the hole, which was meant for a chimney. There was no window. The one door furnished all the light and air.
I found out afterwards that such cabins were occupied only by a comparatively few, even of the poor in Ireland. The Government is at present working among these poor peasants, and in a few years it is expected such hovels will be banished forever from the island. This was a “bog-trotter” cabin, such as is only found in the hilly and desolate regions, where birds, to say nothing of men, find it hard to get a living.
The woman was cordial and self-possessed, and did not seem to mind the squalid surroundings. She offered us some of the cooked potatoes, and as we ate them outside the cabin, taking them in our hands, they tasted as good as though they had been cooked in a palace.
A few neighbors soon gathered and helped us get the aeroplane down from the low roof.
While Mike was getting ready to start again, I talked with the owner of the cabin. He seemed cheerful and pointed out to me his potato patch, his “food and drink.”