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CONTENT S.

A BY-DAY WITH THE PEKING DRAG. BY G. E. H.,

A QUEEN OF TRAGEDY. BY VALENTINE WILLIAMS (VEDETTE),
A SAVOYARD COMMUNITY. BY THE PROVOST OF TRINITY,

DUBLIN,

A STUDY IN GREEN. BY SALTIRE,

A WORD IN SEASON. BY J. A. STRAHAN,

AS BEFITS MY POSITION. BY MRS SAMUEL PEPYS.

(BEING EXTRACTS FROM HER DIARY),

EXPERIENCES OF AN OFFICER'S WIFE IN IRELAND,
FROM THE CONGO TO UGANDA. BY GILBERT BUSSEY,
FROM THE OUTPOSTS-

THE MARKSMAN. BY L. A.,.

CONCERNING NINGTOS. BY CAPTAIN R. G. BLACK,.

GRIEF AND GLAMOUR OF THE BOSPHORUS.

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BY LIEUT.-COLONEL

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ON HAZARDOUS SERVICE. BY MERVYN LAMB,

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TALES OF THE R.I.C.,

THE JOLLY ROGER. BY DOUGLAS G. BROWNE,

THE LITTLE ROCK OF THE DANCING,

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THE REGIMENTAL DURBAR. BY MAJOR-GENERAL SIR GEORGE

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YOUNGHUSBAND, K.C.M.G., K.C.I.E., C.B., THE SAGA OF A SHIP. BY DAVID HANNAY, THE VOYAGE HOME. BY ALAN GRAHAM, VAGABOND IMPRESSIONS. BY ST JOHN LUCAS, VIGNETTES. BY ELLA MACMAHON,

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INDEX,

843

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

No. MCCLXIII.

JANUARY 1921.

VOL. CCIX.

THE LITTLE ROCK OF THE DANCING.

MICHAEL DINNEEN's cottage in Carrigarinka village wore a deserted look when I passed it on my way to the railway junction. Not that it ever looked particularly comfortable or prosperous, nor, indeed, could Dinneen himself be described in these terms.

An ex-soldier, who had lost an arm in the war, he was a comparatively recent settler in the village, driven there, it was reported, by ill-treatment received in his native place, which happened to be fiercely Sinn Fein and pro-German. I gathered he was popular in his new home. His neighbours treated him with cautious friendliness. He managed to obtain employment in the telegraph office in a country town three miles off, and went his way unmolested.

As I drove my car down the village street I realised that VOL. CCIX.-NO. MCCLXIII.

I.

Carrigarinka was keeping a compulsory holiday-the third within the week. From at least one window in every house a Sinn Fein flag hung limply in the mild spring air; even the whitewashed wall round the pump was enlivened by stripes of green and yellow paint. In the distance I could see the limestone crag known as the little rock of the dancing, with a defiantly large flag tied to a stunted tree on its summit. The rock itself was a landmark visible for many miles. In the field below the country people formerly assembled for games and dancing. Later, the rock overlooked less innocent occupations, for, when not detained at the nation's expense, the chief Sinn Feiner of the district, one Teige O'Leary (or, as he patriotically rendered it, Tadg Laeghire), lived beneath its shelter.

Perhaps when compulsory a holiday loses some of its charm. Beyond the display of flags, I could see no particular signs of rejoicing. Indeed, most of the inhabitants appeared distinctly glum. The closing of two public-houses-contrary to the usual holiday custom-might have caused some depression; but it is more likely that the men, mostly small landholders and working farmers, were uncomfortably aware that their farms must suffer from continual enforced holidays at the busy spring season, and that arrears of work were accumulating which they could scarcely hope to get even with.

And they had yet another reason for secret dismay. The holiday, ordered by Sinn Fein authorities, celebrated the release of hunger-striking political prisoners-men suspected of connivance and responsibility in murders and outrages which were condemned by all except a small band of extremists. Yet not one of the Carrigarinka villagers would have dared express disapproval of the release any more than he would have ventured to work that day. Each man feared his neighbour and mistrusted his oldest friend. Those whose fears were keenest flew the largest flags and flaunted their patriotic badges the most obtrusively.

I stopped my car at the post-office near the end of the long straggling street.

Inside I found Mrs Moylan, the postmistress, and

her

daughter Bridgie engaged in low-voiced conversation with two neighbours. The latter, drawing their shawls over their heads, departed quietly through the back door. Bridgie and her mother turned perturbed yet expectant faces to me. Evidently my visit betokened something of more interest than a request for stamps. It was evident, too, that Bridgie Moylan had been crying.

Mrs Moylan, bending low as she handed the change, murmured apparently to the counter

"Did ye get anny account of Mike Dinneen? The poor fellow

She stopped abruptly and busied herself with the stamp drawer. I saw that a young man carrying a rebel flag had entered the little shop.

He belonged to a type which has come into existence in Ireland during the last few years-undefinable as to class, well dressed, well drilled, exuding arrogance and self-satisfaction. No vestige of the national indolence clings to the exponents of this type, and they have lost all traces of the national good nature. Indeed, they seem to have acquired something of the bearing that characterised their "glorious German ally."

He made no attempt to remove his hat in my presence, though he stepped aside perfunctorily to allow me to pass, dispelling any illusion of politeness by raising his flag and giving it an aggressive flutter.

His expression openly indicated contempt for my class, and triumph at the Government's latest surrender to Sinn Fein.

I drove away feeling ruffled, for when one's curiosity is aroused it is annoying to be unable to gratify it, and doubly so when the hindrance is in itself objectionable.

I resolved to call again at the post-office on my way home and find out more about Mike Dinneen.

But ill-luck pursued me that afternoon. Owing to the holiday the parcels office at the railway junction was closed, so I was unable to transact my business. Nor did I succeed in questioning Mrs Moylan about Dinneen, for I did not get within two miles of Carrigarinka.

At the steepest pitch of a long hill leading to the crossroads surmounted by the little rock of the dancing, there was a swishing sound in the bushes by the roadside. Four men with blackened faces sprang out, and raising revolvers barred my way. I had no choice but to apply the brakes. A fifth man, tall and well-dressed, wearing a black cloth mask, stepped leisurely from the fir plantation opposite. At a sign from him I was pulled unceremoniously out of the car. I stood in the road with a revolver against each side of my head. The muzzles felt cold and very hard.

I was both angry and startled, but anger had the upper hand.

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His companions replaced their revolvers in side-pockets, and packed themselves into the car. the leader started it against the steep hill showed he was well accustomed to the work.

The ease with which

A few minutes later the sound of the engine had died away round a bend in the road, and I was alone with my helpless fury.

Such episodes are common in Ireland. But though one hears of them continually, one scarcely expects to experience them oneself. The civilised habit of mind still persists, though the country is overrun by forces of disorder. Consequently my anger was mingled with a sense of unreality. I was obliged to lay my bare hand over the moss-covered

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