strapping on cartridge belts, double-quicked to his aid. A machine gun
sniffed the air from the upper story of the boat house. Scotch-and-Soda
veered heavily bridgewards. A squad of fifty helmeted constables marched to
the bridge, and marked time. But the boys and girls merely asked if they
might go home, and when they were refused, turned about again and kept up a
circling tramp, requesting admission. Down near the Broken Treaty Stone, in
St. Munchin's Temperance hall, in a room half-filled with potatoes and eggs
and milk, women who were to care for the exiles during their temporary
banishment, were working. A few of the workers' red-badged guards came to
herald the approach of the workers, and then sat down on a settle outside
the hall.

St. Munchin's chapel bell struck the Angelus.

The red-badged guards rose and blessed themselves.



THE BISHOP ON COMMUNISM

Possibly, I thought, the clergymen of Limerick were hurried into support of
red labor. What was the attitude of those who had a perspective on the
situation towards communism?

Just outside Limerick, in the town of Ennis in the county of Clare--Clare
as well as Kerry has the reputation of shooting down informers at
sight--there dwells the most loved bishop in Ireland. The Lenten pastoral
of the Right Reverend Michael Fogarty, bishop of Killaloe, was so fervently
national that when it was twice mailed to the Friends of Irish Freedom in
America it was twice refused carriage by the British government. There was