But I am poorly carrying out my resolution not to write of Killarney, though surely the theme tempts one to linger; there is much I have not even hinted at; Ross Castle and Muckross Abbey alone might occupy many pages were I competent to fill them. But we will leave them all, though we must pause a moment in the town itself, surely a paradise for lovers of Irish laces and for seekers after trinkets and souvenirs galore. It is rather cleaner and more substantial than the average small Irish town, yet Killarney and its environs have all the earmarks of a tourist-thronged resort and in this particular, at least, are disappointing. While there is much of beauty and interest, we cannot help a feeling as we leave the town behind us that some of the encomiums may have been a little over-enthusiastic. But Killarney rapidly recedes as we hasten toward Tralee through a country whose bleak hill-ranges alternate with still drearier peat bogs, often of great extent. Everywhere one sees piles of cut and dried peat, the almost universal fuel in Ireland. Its use is evidenced by the thin blue smoke curling from the rude chimneys and by the pungent odor as it falls to the earth under the lowering sky. For the sky has become overcast and gray. We have had--very unusual, too, they tell us--several days of perfect weather; the rule is almost daily showers in Ireland during the summer. We find Tralee a large, lively town; it is market day and the narrow main street is fairly blocked with donkey-carts, driven by screaming old women, and the heavier, more unwieldy carts of the farmers. The old women often go into a panic at the sight of the motor, and grasp the donkeys by the bridle as though these sleepy little brutes might be expected to exhibit all the fire of a skittish horse; but never one of them even lifts his lazy ears as the motor hums under his nose. It is different with some of the horses, which become unmanageable and swing the heavy carts around in spite of all the drivers can do. And woe to the motorist who should try conclusions with one of these carts that may be suddenly thrown across his way. The wreck of the car would be almost certain and I doubt if the cart would suffer at all. These vehicles are primitive in the extreme; two massive wheels, an oaken beam axle and two shafts made of heavy timbers, is about all there is to one of them. It is with such vehicles that Tralee swarms and our progress to the market square is slow indeed. In the midst of the market place stands a monument surmounted by the figure of a peasant soldier, the inscriptions commemorating the Irish patriots of '98, '03, '48 and '67, and declaring the "undying allegiance of the Irish people to republican principles." The hotel where we stop for luncheon is a large limestone building, just opposite the monument. It is fairly clean and the service cannot be complained of; Irish hotels have averaged better than we had been led to expect.