"'Right ye are!' says he. Up comes the purtiest chariot in the city of Heaven an' finest charioteer.
"'Me boy,' says God, 'take a million tons ov th' choicest seeds of th' flowers of Heaven an' take a trip around th' world wi' them. Scatther them,' says He, 'be th' roadsides an' th' wild places of th' earth where my poor live.'
"'Aye,' says the charioteer, 'that's jist like ye, Father. It's th' purtiest job of m' afther-life an' I'll do it finely.'
"'It's jist come t' Me in a dream,' says th' Father, 'that th' rich have all the flowers down there and th' poor haave nown at all. If a million tons isn't enough take a billion tons!'"
At this point I got in some questions about God's language and the kind of flowers.
"Well, dear," she said, "He spakes Irish t' Irish people and the charioteer was an Irishman."
"Maybe it was a wuman!" I ventured.
"Aye, but there's no difference up there."
"Th' flowers," she said, "were primroses, butthercups an' daisies an' th' flowers that be handy t' th' poor, an' from that day to this there's been flowers a-plenty for all of us everywhere!"
"Now you go to-morra an' gether a basketful an' we'll fix them up in th' shape of th' Pryamid of Egypt an' maybe ye'll get a prize."