"Morra, bhoy, God's blessin' on ye!"
"Morra, Mary, an' good luck t' ye," was my answer.
I used to express my wonder that I couldn't turn this luck of a dead-sure variety into a pair of shoes for myself.
Anna said: "Yer luck, dear, isn't in what ye can get, but in what ye can give!"
When Antrim opened its first flower show I was a boy of all work at old Mrs. Chaine's. The gardener was pleased with my work and gave me a hothouse plant to put in competition. I carried it home proudly and laid it down beside her in the chimney-corner.
"The gerd'ner says it'll bate th' brains out on aany geranium in the show!" I said.
"Throth it will that, dear," she said, "but sure ye couldn't take a prize fur it!"
"Why?" I growled.
"Ah, honey, shure everybody would know that ye didn't grow it—forby they know that th' smoke in here would kill it in a few days."
I sulked and protested.