It was a long, desolate drive over stony hills and roads whose ruts swallowed half my wheels, with now and then a waste of bog to cross, and now and then a stream to ford. For hours I met not a soul nor saw a sign of life except the cattle huddling on the hillside, or the smoke of some far-away cabin.
My mare was a patient, leisurely beast, with no notion of reaching the city before her time, and no willingness to exchange her sedate jog for all the whipping or “shooing” in Ireland.
Presently, as it came to the afternoon, I left the mountain road and came on to the country road from Fahan to Derry. Here I met more company; but no one heeded me much, especially when it was seen that my turnips were a poor sort, and that he who had charge of them was but a slip of a boy, with not a word to say to any one.
“Are you for Derry?” one woman asked as she overtook me on the road.
“So you may say,” said I, hoping that would be the end of her.
But she carried a bundle, and was not to be put aside so easily.
“I’ll just take a lift with you,” said she.
But I jogged on without a word.
“Arrah, will you stop till I get up? Is it deaf ye are?” said she.
“’Deed I am,” said I, whipping my beast.