ABSTRACT
To the farm-hand who has tired of the farm, the football match and the cinema, the noise and the bustle of the city are infinitely better than the quiet country land and the smouldering turf fire. To the farmer’s daughter with a spark of ambition, electric light and water on tap, silk stockings and city pavements, are more attractive than paraffin lamps and muddy farmyards. These Irish émigrés will weep homesick tears for the thatched cottage where they spent their childhood, but they pass the best years of their life in a Dublin office or a Manchester factory.
