“Potaties and oats?” says I.
“No such luck!” says he.
“What thin?” I asked.
“Famine and faver!” he says pat.
You might have knocked me down wid a Jack-straw, whin I heard those words. I raled back, and if it hadn’t been for a binch that was close against the wall, which I clutched a hould of, and managed to bring myself up with, I’d have fallen full length on the floor.
“Have a good sup of this!” says he, handing me his tumbler of punch; “and don’t take on so,” says he. “You are better off than most of the neighbours! Sure death hasn’t knocked at your door; and all you love are living—though they have had a hard time of it—to welcome you back.”
“You are right,” says I, as I started up, “and the sooner I get that welcome the better. What am I wasting my time here for, at all at all, whin I ought to be there—it’s only twenty miles. It’s airly yet, I can be home by nightfall. I have promised to return, but I’ve got three days’ lave, so I’m off at onct.”
I won’t kape you on the road, sure it’s longer than ever it seemed; but it came to an end at last. I forgot all my fatigue whin I opened the door, and stepped inside the threshhold; it was between day light and dark—there was no candle burning—but I could see the forms of the four people most dear to me on earth. An involuntary “The Vargin be praised!” broke from my lips.
“My son!—my son!” almost screamed my mother, and if I had been four boys instead of one there wouldn’t have been room enough on me for the kisses they all wanted to give me at the same time.
Whin the first great joy of our meeting was over, I began to ask pardon for quitting ould Ireland widout their lave.