typical. Our motor-car broke down, and while repairs were in progress a small boy was an interested spectator. When all was in order again and we were about to start, the boy looked wistfully as us—at least as wistfully as a northern boy can: they are not demonstrative except on the Twelfth of July. My husband interpreting the look, invited him for a drive. He accepted, and as my husband set him down after his spin the boy lifted his cap and said: "Thank you, Mr. Kettle, I am much obliged. To hell With the Pope!" and walked sedately away. It was surely a spirited and quaint declaration of independence and incorruptibility.
Another incident, too, stands out. The night the poll was declared there was wild enthusiasm in Tyrone. As Mr. Leslie says, "there was a green rash." My husband had promised that if he won, he would address a meeting at Cookstown. To get there it was necessary to pass through an Orange hamlet; as feeling was high and the hour late, it was deemed imprudent for us to go, but my husband insisted. We were about to start in a motor when one supporter, who had done his best to detain us, said very lugubriously: "Well, you have a terrible road before you." "What's the matter with it?" questioned the chauffeur anxiously. He was a Dublin man and quite ignorant of local politics. "Is it full of hills?" "No," replied the other in a tone of grave warning; "full of Protestants."
