She was tall with long, narrow feet, and couldn't she stride along! My father often told me that the boys of the neighbourhood used to measure her stride on the muddy road and that there was none of them except himself who could span it. You'd think by her walk that there was a tremendous shower coming on and that she was bent on reaching shelter before it overtook her.
This morning was rather chilly. The night had been frosty and the air was very cold. The hand in which Seán Og held his oat cake was like a ripe plum. The other hand, which gripped the edge of his mother's faded dolman, was nearly as bad. He had to take ten steps for one of hers, and this warmed him up. He trotted with all his might.
Things weren't quite so bad with Maire Bán. Maire had only nine steps to take for every one step of her mother's. You will gather from this what age Maire and the Burla were. Maire was not more than seven-and-a-half, and the Burla was only five. The poor mite, not knowing why or where he was going!
How should he know, as his mother never opened her lips when she would be tearing ahead in this fashion. Her mouth was tightly shut as she skirted the Strand Road, and still more tightly shut as she crossed the Claddagh bridge. They crossed the Fish Market, went up Quay Street and High Street and never halted until
