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said-in what people call a pig's whisper—“Me Easther's eggs on you, Mat. I wondher what way is the otther this mornin'?"
“ The way I left him, I suppose; wid his neck broke an’ he hanging be the heels,” said her brother, his thin, otherwise healthy, young face, twinkling all over with satisfaction at the memory of his last evening's exploit.
The family were soon all awake, and as neatly attired as possible under the circumstances. In honor of the day, poor old Gran, with much pride, tied a new checked bib upon Patsy, the price of which she had earned by knitting, and looked with love and admiration upon his curly head and shining face, notwithstanding her aching sides. She made him kneel down and say his prayers, and he stumbled through his Pater and Ave pretty well, considering his years; though his thoughts were on the otter, and his eyes kept turning towards the door.
“Mind your prayers, sir," said his grandmother.
“ He have awful long whishkers," responded Patsy, upon which she gave him a cuff on the ear, and he finished his prayers in tears; but quickly consoled himself by running out to see the otter. From whence, however, he returned in a few moments crying lustily, and stating in indignant tones, interspersed with sobs, that “ Mat bate him 'cause he on'y dust put his finger on his whishkers."
“Begob! thin, if you could put your finger on Mat's whisker you could do more than I could anyhow!” said his father from out a thick lather of soap which covered the lower half of his face.
“Aye, troth," laughed old Gran.
« ? Tosn't Mat's whiskers, on’y the otther's,” grumbled Patsy in an injured tone.
MRS. W. SKRINE (“ MOIRA O'NEILL”).
“ MOIRA O'NEILL,” who was Miss Nesta Higginson, comes of an old Ulster family. She is married to Mr. Walter Skrine ; they lived for some years on a ranch in Canada, but they are now settled in Ireland. The poems of " Moira O'Neill” have mostly made their first appearance in Blackwood's and The Spectator. The authoress has also published two prose stories— The Elf-Errant' and 'An Easter Vacation.' “Her poetry," says a writer in 'A Treasury of Irish Poetry,' " is Irish of the Irish-tender, wistful, hovering on the borderland between tears and laughter, and as musical as an old Gaelic melody. It springs straight from life, a genuine growth of the Antrim glens."
I met an ould caillach I knowed right well on the brow o' Car
nashee: “ The top o' the mornin'!” I says to her. “God save ye!" she says to me:
“ An’ och! if it's you,
When are ye goin' to marry?"
“As sure as ye 're young an' fair," says she, one day ye 'll be
ugly an' ould. If ye haven't a husband, who 'll care,” says she, “ to call ye in out o' the could ?
Left to yourself,
Now is your time to marry.
“ I may be dead ere I'm ould,” says I,“ for nobody knows their
day. I never was feared o' the could,” says I, “but I'm feared to give up me way.
Good or bad,
'Tis mine no more when I marry.
The poor ould caillach went down the hill shakin' her finger at
me. “'T is on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' that's what it is," says she.
But thon was the day
Had me promise to marry.
THE GRAND MATCH.
Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young,
An' he wanted a girl wid a fortune.
Nannie was gray-eyed an' Nannie was tall,
But she'd not a traneen to her fortune.
He be to look out for a likelier match,
But that was a trifle, he tould her.
She brought him her good-lookin' gold to admire,
An' paid him that “thrifle” he tould her.
He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by,
She said, “ How is the woman that owns ye?”
Och, never be tellin' the life that he's led!
An' the tongue o' the woman that owns him.
Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay,
Sure, he's five months, an' he's two foot long,
There's nobody can rightly tell the color of his eyes,
This Johneen; For they ’re partly o’ the earth an' still they ’re partly o’ the skies,
Like Johneen. So far as he's thraveled he's been laughin' all the way, For the little soul is quare an’ wise, the little heart is gay; An' he likes the merry daffodils—he thinks they'd do to play
He 'll sail a boat yet, if he only has his luck,
For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet
Wathers o' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin',
Since I was near ye what have I seen?
Night and day where the wayes are green.
Over a waste o' wathers green.
Sternish an' Trostan, dark wi’ heather,
High are the Rockies, airy-blue;
Here they ’re lyin' the long year through.
Och, an' the shadows between are blue!