“I’m mad, I’m mad, I know I’m mad,
Enough to drive one mad,
Stark, raving, howling, crazy mad,
It is to lose one’s child.”
Samantha subsided and flew behind her mother like a chicken behind an old hen. The old woman laid her hand tenderly on our shoulder, and said sympathizingly: “Poor creetur she’s lost a child; I think I’d go crazy, too, if I lost Samanthy. Poor lamb!”
“Mary haf got a leetle lambs already,
Dose wool vas vite like shnow,
Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud,
Dot lambs vent oud vid Mary.”
“Massy sakes!” cried the woman, “what do you call yourself, Dutch, Irish or American?” “My father and mother are Irish, and I am Irish too.” “Mon dieu, madame, vat you please.”