people have, of course, drifted into professional life in Dublin, or
have gone abroad; yet, wherever they are, they do not equal their
forefathers, and where men used to collect fine editions of Don
Quixote and Moliere, in Spanish and French, and luxuriantly bound
copies of Juvenal and Persius and Cicero, nothing is read now but
Longfellow and Hall Caine and Miss Corelli. Where good and roomy
houses were built a hundred years ago, poor and tawdry houses are
built now; and bad bookbinding, bad pictures, and bad decorations
are thought well of, where rich bindings, beautiful miniatures, and
finely-carved chimney-pieces were once prized by the old Irish
landlords.

To return to our garden. One year the apple crop was unusually
plentiful, and every Sunday inroads were made upon it by some
unknown persons. At last I decided to lie in wait at the dangerous
hour--about twelve o'clock--when the boys of the neighbourhood were
on their way home from Mass, and we were supposed to be busy with
our devotions three miles away. A little before eleven I slipped
out, accordingly, with a book, locked the door behind me, put the
key in my pocket, and lay down under a bush. When I had been reading
for some time, and had quite forgotten the thieves, I looked up at
some little stir and saw a young man, in his Sunday clothes, walking
up the path towards me. He stopped when he saw me, and for a moment
we gazed at each other with astonishment. At last, to make a move, I
said it was a fine day. 'It is indeed, sir,' he answered with a
smile, and then he turned round and ran for his life. I realized
that he was a thief and jumped up and ran after him, seeing, as I
did so, a flock of small boys swarming up the walls of the garden.
Meanwhile the young man ran round and round through the raspberry
canes, over the strawberry beds, and in and out among the apple