Mike—Yus, poor Sullivan is dead. He hadn’t got an enemy in the world.
Pat—What did he die of?
Mike—Oh; he wur killed in a foight.
ASPIRATION.
An Irish mother who had occasion to reprove her eldest son exclaimed, “I just wish that your father was at home some evening to see how you behave yourself when he is out!”
“Good mornin’ to ye, Mrs. Cassidy. An’ is the likely lookin’ young feller in yer third floor front a mimber of the church?”
“Naw, Mrs. Haggerty, I’m sorry to say he ain’t. He’s just an unconfirmed roomer.”