Anna had a mouth that looked like a torn pocket. She could pucker it into the queerest shapes. She smacked her thin blue lips, puckered her mouth a number of times while Anna emptied and refilled the can.
"If this is as good as it smells," she said as she went out, "I'll jist sup it myself and let oul Billy go chase himself!"
Jamie was the family connoisseur in matters relating to broth. He tasted Ann's. The family waited for the verdict.
"Purty good barley an' lithin'," he said, "but it smells like Billy's oul boots."
"Shame on ye, Jamie," Anna said.
"Well, give us your highfalutin' opinion ov it!" Anna sipped a spoonful and remarked: "It might be worse."
"Aye, it's worse where there's nown, but on yer oath now d'ye think Sooty Ann washed her han's?"
"Good clane dhirt will poison no one, Jamie."
"Thrue, but this isn't clane dhirt, it's soot—bitther soot!"
It was agreed to pass the O'Hare delection. When it cooled I quietly gave it to my friend Rover—Mrs. Lorimer's dog.