"True, Mrs. O'Halloran," I sighed. "I'm sure you must feel it. But, my word! you can grow the right sort of children here! How old is the little girl?" My custom is to ask a mother the age of her child, and then express incredulity.
"Oul'er nor she's good. She was five on the thurteenth iv last month."
"No, but seriously, Mrs. O'Halloran?"
"A'm always sayrious about telling the thruth." And with this retort courteous the impervious woman retired into her house, while I seated myself on the bucket stool against the wall, and proceeded to fill my pipe.
"We got six goats—pure Angoras," remarked the little girl, approaching me with instinctive courtesy. "We keep them for milkin'; an' Daddy shears them ivery year."
"I noticed them coming along," I replied. "They're beautiful goats.
And I see you've got some horses too."
"Yis; three. We bought wan o' them chape, because he hed a sore back, fram a shearer, an' it's nat hailed up yit. Daddy rides the other wans. E-e-e! can't my Daddy ride! An' he ken grow melons, an' he ken put up shelves, an' he knows iverything!"
"Yes; your Daddy's a good man. I knew him long, long ago, when there was no you. What's your name, dear?"
"Mary."
"She's got no name," remarked the grim voice from the interior of the house. And the mild, apologetic glance of the child in my face completed a mental appraisement of Rory's family relations.