“What are you howling for, you old goose?” shouted Nannie.
“It's the cow!” screamed Bridget. “Take her off! Oh, howly Mither! I'm kilt entirely.”
“The cow is half a mile from you!” laughed Nannie. “She didn't even look toward you.”
“Shure I felt her horns go into me back, an' as the saints live in glory, I see thim come out at me brist.”
“Well, I wish I could see you come out at the cow-yard with that milk pail.”
Bridget picked up her pieces, put herself together, and discontentedly ambled toward the cow-yard, averring that in spite of all Nannie might say, she knew she had a hole an inch wide in her left lung; she could feel the wind whistle through it.
“There's nothing the matter with your lungs,” said Nannie, “as all the neighborhood knows by this time.”
With a long, solemn countenance and a tear in each eye, Bridget approached Sarah Maria, who was breakfasting in a hasty, unhygienic manner.
“It's me life I take in me hand,” murmured Bridget.
“Drop your life and take your pail instead, or are you going to milk into your apron?” said Nannie imperiously.