“What was it, Maurya?” I asked, for all of us, young and old, used to humour her.
“Well, then,” said she, “do you see them three legs to the pot that’s boilin’ there before you?”
“I do,” said myself, “why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, then, Shamey, and mind you, I didn’t tell this to anyone but yourself, I dreamt last night them three legs to the pot were the three sticks; and rayson that out for me if you can, for I can’t. I think sometimes my poor head is goin’, Shamey.”
I knew what she meant by “the sticks,” but, of course, I couldn’t guess the meaning of her dream.
“I don’t know, Maurya,” said I. “I don’t know what it means.”
“Ah, then, how could you, Shamey?” said she. “Sure you never supped sorrow, and I hope you never will, avick, and ’tis only them that has supped it year after year that could tell poor Maurya what she wants to know.”
And she swung the crane from which the pot was hanging out from the burning turf.
“Do you see the three legs of it, Shamey?” she asked.
“I do, Maurya,” said I.