"Do you often come this way?"
"Not very often, sir. No one lives here except the poor people and the priest and the doctor. It is the poorest parish in Ireland, and every third or fourth year there's a famine; and they would have died long ago if it had not been for Father James."
"And how does he help them?"
"Isn't he always writing letters to the Government asking for relief works. Do you see those bits of roads? They are the relief works."
"Where do those roads lead to?"
"Nowhere. The road stops in the middle of the bog when the money is out."
"But," I said, "surely it would be better if the money were spent upon permanent improvements, on drainage, for instance."
The boy did not answer; he called to his horse, and I had to press him for an answer.
"There's no fall, sir."
"And the bog is too big," I added, in hope of encouraging conversation.