disgust; yet the islands are fading already, and I can hardly realize that the smell of the seaweed and the drone of the Atlantic are still moving round them.
One of my island friends has written to me:
Dear John Synge,—I am for a long time expecting a letter from you and I think you are forgetting this island altogether.
Mr. ——— died a long time ago on the big island and his boat was on anchor in the harbour and the wind blew her to Black Head and broke her up after his death.
Tell me are you learning Irish since you went. We have a branch of the Gaelic League here now and the people is going on well with the Irish and reading.
I will write the next letter in Irish to you. Tell me will you come to see us next year and if you will you'll write a letter before you. All your loving friends is well in health.—Mise do chara go buan.
Another boy I sent some baits to has written to me also, beginning his letter in Irish and ending it in English:
Dear John,—I got your letter four days ago, and there was pride and joy on me because it was
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