IN AN IRISH TOWN.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 195, 28 July 1916, Page 2 (Supplement)

IN AN IRISH TOWN.

By CANON* LANG BRIDGE.

(Rector of St. John's, and Canon ot' St. Munchin's, St. Mary's Cathedral, Limerick.) fLondon "Daily News.") "This is cheerful," T said, glancing round the breakfast table. "Not a letter —not a circular —not a paper!" "Oh, sir," said the cook, "the bread man's after telling me the rails are up." I drank a cup of tea, and found my hat. "I must go out." I said, "and see what's the matter." As soon as my feet were on the pavement I was conscious of something strange. There was a lovely Easter sky, traversed by a flight of bird-like clouds of violet and indigo. The children were playing hopscotch or knocking balls about With great hurley sticks, but the men went silently. When T reached the crossway, where the corner-boys convene, their backs against the wall, spitting in amiable vacuity, 1 saw it almost shorn of its loafers. The few who kept their place talked less; spat more frugally. Their faces were locked cupboards. Turing into the main street, T met the doctor. "Strange times," he said. "Is it true that the rails are up?" "Xo," he answered, ' but two bridges are broken." "An accident?" f asked. "Blown up," he answered. We both looked round, and then passed. I stopped at the first stationer's. " 'lndependent,' " I said. "Not come," said the girl. " 'lrish Times,' then —anything." "Nothing come," she answered. Her looks were frightened beneath their blankness. When I stepped into the street again the sinister calm semed to have spread. The footsteps fell with a muffled sound. Every chimney seemed to turn a hearkening ear. # * * * "I must wire to Dublin," 1 said, and 1 walked down to the post office. Instead of the usual line of officials I saw only two —a man and a woman. Instinctively 1 knew that a telegram could not go. The woman understood my face, and nodded. "Yes," she said, "we're isolated." "Wires cut," added the man; "telephones closed down." "Who's done it?" I asked. "The authorities," said the man. "No." said the woman, "the others."

T walked out, leaving "the others" uninterpreted. At the crossing an old clergyman drew me aside. "Have you been into the bank " he asked. "No," I answered.

"Come and see," he said; "it's worth a visit." We walked up the street and looked into the solid room, with its counter and cross counter, it was like a chapel; a girl clerk was talking to a man clerk. "Where are all the staff?" I inquired. "Can't get through," said the man. "My sister's there," said the girl. "There's been a bit of a shindy," the man remarked. "It's rather more than that." said a merchant who had looked in. "They're holding the post office and Stephen's Green. I'm back from Dublin myself. They turned us all back at Kingsbridge. I sat in a chair all night and didn't get a drink or a bite Hundreds there were from here, many with not a spare shilling in their pocket. God knows what will become of them. I made my way to a country station and got home by a goods train. It was like to have been my long home. Twice I w.as sniped, and a girl beside me. "I know," said the old clergyman.

The sound of marching feet came to our ears. "Post office," said the merchant; "they're occupying that."

We walked out, and a long waggon, driven and guarded by soldiers, went up the street. "Sandbags," said the merchant, "going to the barracks.' i I turned down the broad cross street and saw a human blackness. I pressed my way through it and saw khakied men. In front of them rose white posts and corrugated zinc. Heyond this was a stand of rifles. Sentries guarded a narrow aperture that gave admission to the bridge. "Pass on, please," said one of them, "and don't stand about." The manner was very pleasant: the soldier men all neighbourly. But the barbed wire, as it was gingerly drawn out. offered a grim hospitality. A voice whispfered: "Don't turn your head but look at the Cathedral.'' I did that. A small black thing crouched between the battlements. "You never expected," said the voice again, "to see a Maxim mounted there. Dublin is in their hands." my friend whispered. "The Irish Republic is proclaimed." "What! Did they stand against the machine-guns?" "They snatched them from the soldiers by dozens: the soltMers, poor devils, are hiding under motors and burrowing under rubbish. You can see the fl.amcs of Dublin for twenty miles: the Bank of Ireland is looted, and every gossoon has a pocketful of gold. Silk dresses are Sd. each and parasols three halfpence." "Well, that seems reasonable enough," I remarked. "What's going to happen here?" "Galway fell last night," he said, "following the example of Waterford and Cork. Ten thousand Germans and a thousand of the Clan—na-Gael are landed in Cork and Kerry. They're marching on us now, with two thousand Galway men, a thousand from Gort, and five hundred from West Clare." "And where are they now?" "They've just passed Ennis, leaving a garrison there." "Then they'll be here in five hours.' "That or a little sooner," he said. "! hope you've a good coal cellar." "Pretty good," I replied. "Well, get into it," he nodded, and went.

An old man who had stood with his back to us, his elbows leaning on the parapet, now turned round. "Sure 'tis all idle authority," he said, "and vain display and building up the taxes. 'Tis the peacefulest Raster I remember, and that's always a peaceful time. No need for interference at all. There does bo nothing between us and Galway but a (lock o' sheep or two and an odd old woman with her basket and a priest,

and he reading his office. There doesn't be a quieter piece o' God's earth than the south-west of Ireland. Sure If there wasn't no polis you'd never hear a worse sound than a concertina or a pleasant laugh. But, sure, they're paid to make disturbances, and they earn their money." "But it's soldiers we have here,"' I said.

"Ah, the little soldier-boys," he answered. "They do be yawning, God help them. 'Tls time they were in bed."

The soldiers never got to bed, I fear. The clergy did not, I know. There were prayers all night. The besieging army never came; none broke in and none broke out. We passed a long, waiting rumour-roll-ing week, cut off from all the world —without a newspaper, a letter, a telegram—and then we drew a grateful breath. The shadow had gone back. Firmness, tact and wisdom had won the day. All was well. But we chall long remember that ugly might-have-been.