"Right here was th' first place ye ever came t' see th' sun dance on th' water on Easter Sunday mornin'."
We turned to the right and walked by the old burying ground of the Unitarian meeting-house and past Mr. Smith's garden. Next to Smith's garden was the garden of a cooper—I think his name was Farren. "Right here," I said, "is where I commited my first crime!"
"What was it?" she asked.
"Stealing apples!"
"Aye, what a townful of criminals we had then!"
We reached the back of the poorhouse. James Gardner was the master of it, and "goin' t' Jamie Gardner" was understood as the last march of many of the inhabitants of Antrim, beginning with "Totther Jack Welch," who was a sort of pauper primus inter pares of the town.
As we passed the little graveyard, we stood and looked over the fence at the little boards, all of one size and one pattern, that marked each grave.
"God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "isn't it fearful not to git rid of poverty even in death!" I saw a shudder pass over her face and I turned mine away.
Ten minutes later we emerged from the fields at the railway station.
"You've never seen Mr. McKillop, the station master, have you?" I asked.