A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin.
A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.
Chapter 4.—Conall Age.
How genial and refreshing the glow of a autumnal evening in the genial climate of Ireland! The golden-edged clouds of the west assume shapes and forms which allow the imagination to revel in unbounded freedom, contrasting and comparing them to tower and battlement, mountain and crag: sometimes they assume the faces of long remembered friends. Now the panorama changes, and they put on the most grotesque and fantastic shapes of beasts and birds. The rich brown foliage of the woods and the yellow tint of the ripened corn contrasts strongly with the emerald sheen of the aftergrass in the fields and meadows. On such an evening, about an hour before sunset, a young man, or boy rather, (for his age might be about eighteen), was crossing one of the fords of the far-famed Munster Blackwater, about midway between the towns of Mallow and Kanturk. His appearance betokened a youth of uncommon speed and hardihood; tall, lithe and athletic for his age, with his limbs moulded in the most perfect symmetry, and an incipient black moustache beginning to shade his upper lip, he looked the very embodiment of ripening manly beauty. the twinkle of his hazel eyes and the cheery smile of his sunny lips, as he crossed the river, showed that his heart was light as his step was firm and elastic. Such was Conall Age, son to the neighbouring chieftain of Mount Ellery, who was returning home from the Sunday goal which was held on the Dunhallow side of Blackwater.
With his hurly in his hand, and whistling his favourite air of "The Red Fox," he had not proceeded more than one hundred yards from te river, when his attention was directed to a group before him in his path. Rapidly coming up, and still whistling his tune, he found them to consist of an old man, a little girl, and a dead horse. The old man appeared to be plunged in the deepest grief, and gave utterance to his feelings in loud lamentations, whilst the little girl appeared to be less affected, though her grief partook more of feeling of anger and impatience than sorrow. Conall Age, after curiously surveying them, asked what was the case of their great grief. "Oh!" said the old man, "my darling son, Cormac Art, I will never see again." "Who," said the youth, "is Cormac Art? Is he the great Kerry hurler? If so, I know him well! I played goal against him last year at Inch; and though he gained the day at that time, as I was too young to successfully compete with such a noted hurler, I intend shortly to challenge him again. But
