stone stands on it in a naturally impossible place, as if it had
been tossed up there by a giant. Over the brow, in the desolate
valley beyond, is a round tower. A lonely white high road
trending away westward past the tower loses itself at the foot of
the far mountains. It is evening; and there are great breadths of
silken green in the Irish sky. The sun is setting.

A man with the face of a young saint, yet with white hair and
perhaps 50 years on his back, is standing near the stone in a
trance of intense melancholy, looking over the hills as if by
mere intensity of gaze he could pierce the glories of the sunset
and see into the streets of heaven. He is dressed in black, and
is rather more clerical in appearance than most English curates
are nowadays; but he does not wear the collar and waistcoat of a
parish priest. He is roused from his trance by the chirp of an
insect from a tuft of grass in a crevice of the stone. His face
relaxes: he turns quietly, and gravely takes off his hat to the
tuft, addressing the insect in a brogue which is the jocular
assumption of a gentleman and not the natural speech of a
peasant.

THE MAN. An is that yourself, Misther Grasshopper? I hope I see
you well this fine evenin.

THE GRASSHOPPER [prompt and shrill in answer]. X.X.

THE MAN [encouragingly]. That's right. I suppose now you've come
out to make yourself miserable by admyerin the sunset?

THE GRASSHOPPER [sadly]. X.X.