From Tralee we take a rough, neglected road to Tarbert-on-Shannon, running through a desolate hill country--the Stacks Mountains, as they appear to Irish eyes--almost devoid of trees, with mean and often unspeakably filthy huts at long intervals. Most of these huts have but two small rooms; in one the domestic animals--the horse, donkey or cow, with a pig or two squealing under foot--and in the other the family. One is quite as clean and comfortable as the other. The muck-heap is squarely in front of the door; it would be too much trouble to put it to the rear, and it is probably cleared away once or twice a year. But withal, the people are probably happier than the nobles in their castles; a merry, laughing, quick-witted folk who greet us with good-natured shouts of welcome--there is no prejudice against the motor here. The cheeriness of the people contrasts with the bleak and depressing country itself, today wrapped in a gray mist that half obscures the view. As we passed through one of the bogs, an incident occurred that added to the gloom of the day, and the poverty of the country still leaves a somber impression on our minds. It was a peasant funeral procession, forty or fifty of the rude carts such as we have described wending their way along the wretched road. The plain pine coffin, fastened with knotted hempen ropes, was borne on a cart similar to the others, and yet the deceased was evidently a person of importance, indicated by the large following and several priests in the center of the procession. As we came up they motioned us to pass, and our car crept by as stealthily as possible, though not without disturbing some of the horses. All treated it with good-natured solemnity and many saluted us as we passed. Farther along the road we saw many people at the cottages in readiness to join the procession when it reached them. The incident could not but impress us with the poverty and really primitive character of the Irish peasants of the inland hills--people and a country quite unknown to those who follow the ordinary routes of travel. Listowel is twenty miles from Tralee, a dilapidated hamlet surrounding a great gloomy-looking church, and above it the shattered towers of the ever-present castle peeping out of a mass of ivy. Ten miles farther over a rough road and we enter Tarbert on a fine wooded headland overlooking the lordly Shannon--truly worthy of such title here--a sweeping river two or three miles in width. For twenty miles or more our road closely follows the southern shore of the broad estuary, and we realize keenly how much of color and distance one loses when the gray rain obscures the landscape. The estuary of the Shannon might well vie with Dingle Bay under conditions similar to those of the preceding day, but we see only a leaden sheet of water fading away in the fitful showers or lying sullenly under the dim outlines of the coast of County Clare.